


i'm better now

by doobiouss



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Body Horror, Cuddling, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Kinda, Lonely!Martin, M/M, Martin POV, More Fluff, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post MAG159, Recovery from trauma, Slow Burn, The Web - Freeform, Web!Martin, am i forgetting anything uuuuuuh, emotional breakdown, grey haired martin!!, helen my love, i might as well just add that one right were how many chapters in, itll switch chapter to chapter, jon pov, the lonely Sucks, theres a lot of webs guys, this is my first fic be gentle with me, youll see - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:07:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22355335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doobiouss/pseuds/doobiouss
Summary: getting rid of the lonely isnt as simple as escaping peter lukas and his fog covered beach. martin learns that the hard way. luckily, he has jon to help him through it!
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 49
Kudos: 224





	1. cooking, cleaning

It’s two weeks after the Lonely, and Martin’s sitting on a couch in the house he's run away to in Scotland.

It’s a nice house, he thinks, staring at the whorls and patterns in the hardwood floor. Of all the places to go, they could’ve done worse than this little cottage, tucked away on top of a hill, away from the village proper and with a low stone wall bordering the whole thing. It was scenic; he’d even dare to call it picturesque. 

Martin just wishes it wasn’t so… isolated. 

But that’s fine. It doesn’t even matter, actually. Jon’s with him. Jon, who led him out of the Lonely and back home. Jon, who had cared enough to try in the first place, even after Martin had so artfully pushed him- and everyone else- away. 

...Jon, who’d had to succumb to the Eye even more to find a way out. He cringes away from where the thought leads. Jon already tried so hard to stay human, to keep himself in check. How much had that stunt taken from him? How much more would he have to give if Martin… relapsed? This is a mistake. He should just-

“Martin?” 

Martin looks up to see Jon standing in the doorway that leads to the bedroom. He’s wearing an old knit green sweater that’s too big on him, and the sight of his fingers just barely poking past the cuff is enough to scatter Martin’s thoughts completely. “Oh- uh, yeah?” he answered, standing up abruptly from the couch. A split second later he wants to kick himself.  _ You don’t need to stand up to have a conversation, Martin. Now you just look like an idiot standing across the room from him-  _

“-and I just wanted to check... hello? Martin?” 

“Oh uh, sorry, were you saying something?”

Jon’s brow furrowed. “I asked if you were alright. I realized that I left you… alone in here and. Well.” He rubs one hand up his arm and looks away. 

Martin feels something in his chest flip over at that. “Jon, that’s sweet, but you don’t have to worry about leaving me alone in a room. You got me away from- from Peter. We’re safe now, I’m fine!” He had to be. “You know, I was just going to go clean this place up some, I think I saw some cobwebs when we were walking in and I know how you feel about those- why don’t you sit down and get some rest?”

Jon frowns petulantly, squaring his shoulders. “I’m not some senior citizen, Martin, I can stand just fine.” 

Martin snorts, moving towards the hall opposite that led to the broom closet. “Alright, stand then, you goof. Shout if you need anything, ok?” 

Martin thinks he catches a grumbled “I’ll get it myself,” before he was out of the room. He chuckles to himself. 

The one thing Martin’s glad for is that at least the cottage isn’t that big. Besides the big kitchen/living room in the middle of the house, there’s only two hallways on either end that lead to the bedroom and bathroom, and another room that contains a chaos of cleaning supplies, extra sheets, canned food, and a washing machine. Martin had noticed the most webs and dust in this room on his initial exploration of the house, so he grabs a broom and decides to work his way out from there. 

It’s easy to get into a rhythm, once he starts. Clean any webs away with the handle before sweeping up the dust and grit into a neat pile. Martin loses himself in the work, glad for how the simple tasks drive away that alluring, drowning fog inside him. He hasn’t told Jon about it yet. Martin remembers from one of his tapes how he referred to the door in his mind, and feels a frightening similarity. Except the fog is not behind something so solid as a door. It’s like it is kept at bay only by a wavering line, one that if he isn’t careful he could step over without even noticing. “Stop that,” Martin mutters to himself, spearing some more cobwebs on the broom handle. No spiraling thoughts. Keep it together. He begins sweeping up the dust in the hall, sending it whirling out the door in plumes that catch the evening sun. Has that much time passed already? He should really get dinner going. He props the broom against the wall and turns, brushing some dust from his hoodie, to see Jon staring at him from where he’s curled up on the couch. When he sees Martin has noticed, he hurriedly looks back down at his phone, which he idly holds in one hand. 

Given Jon’s relationship to Beholding, Martin’s fairly certain that intense staring should be more disconcerting to him, but all he feels is amusement. “Jon,” He says, a smile quirking his lips as he walks over and plops down onto the couch next to him. “Whatever were you looking at just now?” 

“...You, obviously,” he mutters, his dark skin flushing as he stares pointedly at a news article on the screen. “I was just- I don’t know, it’s- I wanted to see how- what you were doing.” A piece of his silver-streaked hair has fallen in front of his face, and Martin squashes the urge to tuck it behind his ear. 

“It’s just cleaning, Jon.” Martin replies, stretching his arms over his head. Christ, he’s tired. He gets up and walks over to the kitchen, grabbing a large pot from the cupboard. 

“...Yes, it’s just cleaning,” Jon echoes. He looks up to see Martin at the sink filling the pot with water. “Oh- Martin, you don’t have to make dinner too. You just cleaned.”

“Jon, it’s fine. If it makes you feel any better, it’s just pasta. Oh, what sauce do you want?” 

Jon frowns, an expression that sends Martin’s heart twisting, and sighs before getting up. “...Pesto. And I’m helping.” He stands up from the couch and strides over to Martin’s side by the stove. “So. What needs doing?” He says, voice gruff and face so serious that Martin has to suppress a giggle.

“Well, I was going to add some tomatoes and spinach, so you could chop those if you want?” He replies, smiling in spite of himself. Only Jon would get so serious about dinner preparation. 

“Yes. I will do that,” Jon states, and the age old urge to kiss him rushes through Martin, right on cue. Instead he opts to hold Jon’s hands as he guides him through chopping the tomatoes correctly. If Jon is bothered by it, he doesn’t say anything. 

The rest of the cooking passes in companionable silence, hips and arms bumping as they move around the small kitchen. The sun finally touches the horizon, throwing squares of gold light across the walls of the cottage. Martin feels a sudden, joyful warmth flood his chest.

It’s two weeks after the Lonely, and he’s cooking dinner with Jon. Maybe, just maybe this once, everything’s going to work out. 


	2. sleeping alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> martin thinks he can avoid the only-one-bed trope. unfortunately, the lonely has other ideas :]

_ Something’s wrong with Martin.  _

Jon is ripped awake by the thought burning through his mind, Knowing it so strongly it hurts. He lurches up in the bed, scrabbling for his glasses before remembering he doesn’t need them anymore (benefits of the Eye, he supposes) and stumbles out into the hall, head and heart pounding out that awful truth. Something’s wrong with Martin. He reaches the living room and fumbles for the light switch before it flicks on.

Jon knows how bad it was for Martin after they escaped the Lonely. Hell, he had  _ been there  _ for most of it. Martin had come out of the fog himself, but he had had… a hard time keeping hold. Staying alone for any period of time had been quickly eliminated as an option after Jon walked into the breakroom at the Institute on their second day back to find it full of fog, Martin staring blankly at the steam rising from the two cups of tea he had gone to make. It had taken an hour of Jon pleading and demanding for him to come back. He had been inconsolable afterwards, sobbing apologies into Jon’s shirt. 

Martin did get better, though. Jon was even surprised by how quickly he had bounced back. By the end of the first week he had lost that awful insubstantiality that reminds Jon too much of Peter Lukas, and by the time Basira had suggested they leave the Institute for Daisy’s safe house he had even taken to going on short walks by himself, much to Jon’s unease. Martin had reasoned his way through Jon’s awkward expressions of concern, saying he was working to cope with the Lonely. That he was getting better. And he had been! He’d come so far in such a short amount of time, who was Jon to deny him a small amount of time to himself? So when they arrived at the house to find there was only one bedroom with one bed and Martin had resolutely declared he would take the couch, Jon had ultimately agreed to it. 

_ Stupid,  _ he now thinks viciously, drinking in the scene before him. 

Martin lays silently on the couch, one hand curled on the floor from where his arm has slid off the cushions. His dark hair curls limply around his ears and eyes, from which tears slide silently down his temples. Fog curls languidly from his open mouth and pools on the ceiling, slowly filling up the room with a soft and grey cold. Looking at him fills Jon with a panic so deep it’s frightening in of itself. 

“Martin,” he breathes, striding forward and kneeling next to the couch. Martin’s head lists to one side, as if pushed by an invisible hand, so that it’s facing Jon’s. A dreamy smile flickers across his lips. 

_ “hi, jon,”  _ he murmurs in a soft voice that is at once too far away and far too close. The movement of his mouth cuts off the fog for a second, creating strange shapes that spiral slowly up to the ceiling. Jon is suddenly struck by how… corpse-like Martin’s prone form is.

“Martin,” he says again, bringing his hand up to rest on Martin’s cheek. It’s cold and damp and still the tears don’t stop, pooling in the curve of Jon’s palm before spilling down his hand, unceasing as a running faucet. “You told me you were  _ better _ , Martin.” 

A small laugh.  _ “i thought… i was, jon. it seemed like such a simple… thing to be. so linear. but… it was harder than i thought. i keep… making time for myself. it’s… healthy to not need others so much. and you, being who you are… it’s hard to be near you… for me. you are… so… good.”  _ His eyes slip shut, and still the tears come.  _ “it frightened me, how good you are.”  _

Jon feels the Ceaseless Watcher stir in his mind, turning its gaze to Martin’s words. It cries for Jon to sink his teeth in deeper, to pull the fullness of Martin’s feelings to the surface so that it may know them entirely. Jon viciously stamps down on the impulse. Not on Martin. Never on Martin. He should be fixing this. Hand still on Martin’s cheek, he quickly runs through his possible courses of action. He could try to talk Martin out of it like he had in the breakroom, but the Lonely that Martin is in now seems stronger than back then. He hadn’t spoken at all during that episode, just stared. 

…In fact, the last time Martin had spoken in the Lonely had been when Peter put him there. And how had Jon saved him then? 

He lets out a breath. Nothing for it, then. He closes his eyes for a second, looking within himself until he feels the great and terrible gaze of the Eye land on him. “Martin,” he states, eyes snapping open. He feels the buzzing of Beholding filling his head and radiating out in itchy waves, and directs it towards Martin. **“What do you see?”**

Martin twitches violently on the couch, and his head wrenches from Jon’s hand like it’s burning hot.  _ “that trick won’t work again, archivist,”  _ the gentle words come out in a faint snarl.  _ “i am alone now. you can't touch me. not anymore.”  _

Jon feels rage flare, sudden and sharp, in his chest. How dare this thing say those words with Martin’s mouth? In his  _ voice? _ The buzzing grows louder.  **“I see you, Forsaken. I see how you burrow into his skin, fat and content as a leech. And I am not afraid of you. But more than you, I see Martin. Good. Kind. Not what even now you try to make him into. And as Avatar of the Eye, the Archivist of the Magnus Institute, I say this: Martin. What. Do. You. See?”**

Martin’s body twitches violently again, almost a convulsion, before he falls limp against the cushions again. His eyes slowly crack open. The fog coming from his mouth thins.  _ “I see… the ceiling,”  _ he says, and it sounds more like Martin than those gentle too-far-too-close words ever did. Jon wilts in relief, slumping across Martin’s stomach as he talks.  _ “I see… the ceiling light. And… and that ugly picture on the wall.”  _

“Keep going,” Jon murmurs, feeling the cold slowly fade from Martin’s body through the fabric of his sweater. “What else?” 

_ “I see… the walls. Of the house. Daisy’s house.  _ We’re in Daisy’s house, and I… oh God,” His voice breaks and Jon feels his breath start getting erratic. 

“Martin shhh, it’s okay, I’m he-” Jon feels a hand grab his and suddenly he’s pulled on top of Martin in a crushing embrace, his legs awkwardly splayed on the floor. Martin’s still breathing fast, almost gasping with each breath. 

“I was Alone. I  _ let myself be Alone.  _ I was sleeping, and I… oh God, Jon. Oh God,” he whispers, squeezing Jon tighter. “I’m so scared.” He starts shaking, and Jon, crammed into Martin’s chest as he is, doesn’t need the Eye to know he’s crying. It breaks his heart. So he does the only thing he can think to do; he shifts until he’s lying side by side with Martin on the couch (it’s a little cramped, but Jon doesn’t care), and stays there, murmuring soothing words to Martin as he sobs. 

He stays like that until Martin cries himself to sleep. He stays until he falls asleep as well, pressed between the bulk of Martin’s body and the back of the couch. It’s the safest he’s felt in a long time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaa thats all i have for now!!! thank u for reading this far!!!! idk when ill be able to post the next chapter, probably soon?? thanks again!!!!


	3. matching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things get said that needed to be said

Martin wakes up to a dream. 

Well, a daydream, really. One that he only lets himself have in the most secret and small part of himself: him and Jon, falling asleep in the same bed. 

It’s morning now, the sun slanting in weakly through the windows, and it’s a couch instead of a bed, but otherwise it’s just the same. At first Martin truly does think he’s dreaming. Why on earth would Jon, who gets uncomfortable about a prolonged handshake, be squashed into a couch that’s too small for Martin, let alone two people? It’s too out of character, as well simply far too good to be actually _real._

For a moment, he just lets himself enjoy it. Jon fits next to him like a puzzle piece, filling in all the available space between him and the cushions. His head rests on the curve of Martin’s shoulder, and he’s so close that Martin can hear the little puffs of air he exhales out through his mouth. Every so often he twitches, and his face is slightly tense, as if he’s having a bad dream. Gently, Martin brings his hand up to rest in his hair. Maybe he’s imagining it, but he thinks Jon relaxes slightly into his touch, and his heart just _melts._ For a moment, Martin is in utter bliss. 

And then he remembers the night before. 

The dream, a vague thing about a line in the sand, dancing closer like a snake. 

The euphoria of being The One Alone, so utterly free of any kind of pain or joy or _anything_ he could cry. He _did_ cry. 

The excruciating, bone-deep ache of the Eye as it pulled him away from it, the pure and simple hatred for the Archivist, that awful thing with its awful _questions-_

Martin screws his eyes shut and counts, slowly and deliberately, to ten. He will not finish that thought. 

This is the most terrifying thing about the Entities, Martin decides: that they made you think you wanted them. He knows the conundrum from the statements; when did the Entities’ influence stop and the victims’ own nature begin? Martin grapples with it almost hourly, and he thinks Jon does too. It’s just so _easy_ to be Lonely. And it’s equally easy to despise the Archivist- to despise _Jon-_ for pulling him away from it. And that knowledge scares Martin much deeper than any fear of isolation. 

Well. Then the only thing to do was… was try harder. Be better than before. Martin goes over the facts clinically. Where had his slip up started? When he slept in a separate room. But he’d slept alone at the Archives before the safe house, and he had been fine _then_. 

Martin groans to himself. Yes, he hadn’t become Lonely sleeping in the stronghold of the _Eye_ immediately after Jon had killed one of the Lonely’s most prominent Avatars. No such protections extended to a cottage in the middle of Scotland. Christ, he’s an idiot. Well, how could he stop it in the future? Some kind of surveillance on him while he slept? Would that even work? 

A mumbling groan cuts through his mental planning, and Martin looks down from the ceiling to see Jon begin to move around against him as he wakes up. He curls slowly into a ball first, seemingly oblivious to how his face presses harder into Martin’s shoulder, before stretching out, back arching, and finally rising into a seated position with his eyes still closed. After a pause, he opens his mouth and lets out the most gargantuan yawn Martin has ever heard. That strange foreign hatred in Martin’s chest evaporates at the sound of it. “Good morning,” he says, smiling. Martin’s found himself smiling a lot at Jon, recently. 

“Hrmmn,” Jon replies eloquently, reaching a hand up to absentmindedly scratch his stubble. Martin wonders if he somehow… _forgot_ about what happened the night before. Surely he wouldn’t think it had been a dream, right? …Maybe if he changes the subject now they won’t have to talk about it. But what to ask?

“How did you sleep?” he blurts out. 

Clearly it isn’t the right thing to say. Jon’s eyes suddenly snap open with horror and he whips around to look at Martin. “Oh my god, Martin. Last night I- you were- are you alright? How do you feel?” His gaze, despite being full of concern, bores into Martin like he’s a bug under a magnifying glass. He notices for the first time that in the dark brown of Jon’s irises a thin line of bright electric green rims his pupils.

“Uh, I-I mean, I’m okay now? I think?” he stutters, suddenly awkward. Jon is still very very close. “I’m alright now, Jon. I am.” 

Jon does not seem convinced. “You were… wrong last night,” he states, angrily shoving his hair out of his face and turning away. Martin lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding as Jon’s eyes flick away. “I shouldn’t have left you alone. I’m so sorry, I was an idiot.” He climbs over Martin off of the couch and walks to the other end of the room, shoulders hunched defensively like he’s waiting for blow. 

“No, Jon it- we didn’t know this would happen. I was okay at the Institute, I’d slept alone and nothing had happened. You couldn’t have known.” 

“I’m the literal Avatar of knowledge incarnate, Martin. If _anyone_ should have known this would happen, it’s me.” 

“Well that’s- that’s bullshit.” 

Jon turns to look at Martin, his gaze raw. “Martin, you don’t- it’s-” He sighs sharply. “I see so many things. Almost all the time. When I sleep, when I have a moment to myself, _all the time_ . And, and it’s all so- so _easy._ I can see almost anything. And I just didn’t look in your direction. I didn’t even try. The knowledge was right there, and I just. I didn’t prioritize it. And you got hurt for it.” His shoulders hunch more. “I’m so s-”

Martin surges forward off the couch, grabbing Jon for a hug from behind. He sucks in a startled breath, and Martin immediately releases him and steps back. “Sorry,” he says, voice strange and fists clenched. “But. Just. Don’t apologize for that. I meant it, it’s bullshit. This thing, the Entities, it’s bullshit, and I- I _refuse_ for them to be both the problem and the solution. Okay? I’m going to do this. I’m going to get better. I’m going to be human. _You’re_ going to be human. We can do this, okay?” 

Jon looks up at him for a second, stunned. He shakes his head, almost in amazement, and for a second Martin thinks his eyes are shining with tears before he’s pulled into another hug with a whispered _“You fool.”_

Martin lets himself be held for a second before wrapping his arms around Jon, resting his chin on top of Jon’s head and closing his eyes. He wishes that hugging Jon didn’t always have to be the result of the fear gods ruining their lives, but at this point he’ll take what he can get. They stand there for a moment, listening to the muted sounds of the cottage and the birds starting to sing outside. Finally, Jon pulls away and briskly wipes his eyes on his sleeve. “Well,” he states, voice thick. He looks out the window, hands fiddling with his sleeves.

“Well,” Martin echoes. The silence that had at first been comfortable is quickly turning awkward. Martin swings his arms back and forth, scrambling for something to say to break it. “Uh, do you want breakfast?” That’ll work. Maybe there’s hope for him yet. 

Jon chuckles to himself before turning to look at Martin. As he does the sun fully breaks over the trees, bathing him and Martin in pale warmth. Martin has to catch his breath as the sun shines into Jon’s brown eyes, turning them a fiery umber. God, he’d write a poem about this moment if poetry wasn’t coming so hard after Peter. 

He’s pulled away from his thinking as Jon says “Yeah… breakfast would be-” Suddenly he stops, eyes widening and mouth falling open as he stares at Martin. Panic flares through him. “Martin,” Jon says slowly. “Your hair.” 

Martin doesn’t understand what he means. “...Well, I just woke up, Jon,” he replies, almost starting to laugh. “Of course I’m going to have a little bedhead.” 

Jon shakes his head. “No, it’s-” A beat of silence. “It’s grey.” 

For a moment Martin stands there, processing. Then he turns on his heel and strides towards the bathroom. No. What? No. That isn’t- why would he- ? He reaches the doorway and looks in the mirror above the sink. 

When Martin was younger, he’d considered dying his hair. His mother had chased him off from the idea, telling him with hair as dark as his he’d have to bleach it and that would make it melt off of his scalp. He’d been old enough to recognize the lie, but some part of him must have believed it, because he never followed through on the desire. Still, he always admired the shimmering bright colors when he saw them in public.

This is not the even tone of dyed hair, however. Between scattered strands of black, his hair is now shot through almost entirely with varying shades of grey. Some of it is dark as iron, other parts gleaming silver turning to pure white. This is the hair of someone much, much older than Martin, and he feels the _wrongness_ of it assert itself with every second he stares into the mirror. With a sickening lurch he realizes it reminds him of the grey of Peter Lukas’s beard. He grabs onto the doorframe to steady himself as Jon runs up behind him before stopping short. 

“Martin…” he begins, face worried. “It was dark, and I didn’t see it- let me run to the store, I’m sure they have hair dye in your color, we can change it back-” 

“No,” Martin responds, cutting him off. The grey’s even in his eyebrows now. “It’s ok, Jon.” After a second he turns to face Jon, pulling a smile on even has his hands shake. “Now we match, yeah?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one kinda got away from me (ive been trying to keep these things short), but heres chapter 3!! enjoy!!!!


	4. cows, cats, apologies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jon and martin have a conversation on the floor

The statement falls flat. Jon doesn’t want to match with anyone in  _ any  _ aspect of his life. There’s not exactly a lot of good things in it at the current moment, and Martin is… well. Martin is too good to have a portion of Jon’s misery. He opens his mouth to say as much but is interrupted as Martin suddenly sits down hard in the middle of the hall, hands sliding down the door frame. He arranges his legs so they’re crossed in front of him, lets out a heavy sigh, and looks up at Jon, eyes pleading. 

“Can we just? Sit down for a moment? This is- this is a lot.”

And how can Jon argue with that? “Uh- yes, we can do that. D-do you want me to sit next to you or-?”

Martin pats the floor next to him as an answer.

“Ah. Alright, then.” He walks over and awkwardly slides down to the floor, legs spread long and gangly in front of him. 

They sit in silence for a moment, Martin staring at the opposite wall with a faraway look. Jon fidgets and feels anxiety start to prickle up his spine. Should he say something? He should right? Martin needs something to distract him. He opens his mouth, not knowing what’s going to come out. 

“Uh. Sorry. About your- it was nice. Your hair, I mean. Good… color.”

Christ, he’s going to scream. 

Martin looks at him for a second, blinking, before a wisp of a laugh escapes his mouth and he leans back against the wall, face turned towards the ceiling. “Are you comforting me? Was that a- a commiseration?”

Embarrassment explodes through him, sending waves of itchy heat crawling up his neck and face. “I’m not- yes it was, but- I’m not good at this, okay?” He leans forward, shoulders hunching. “If it was bad just say so.” 

“No, Jon, I- I’m sorry. I shouldn’t tease.” A sigh. Jon can hear an awful weight in it. Martin never used to sound so… tired. It makes something in his chest hurt. “You know when I said let’s sit, I wanted to… talk about things. Things that aren’t the Entities or- or the Institute or the Lonely or  _ this-”  _ He gestures at his head. “-but, but looks like all I did was hurt your feelings, huh?” There’s a little humorless chuckle. Jon looks over to see Martin with a hand balled up in his hair, his silver-iron hair, staring down at the floor with a self deprecating smile before realization dawns in his eyes. “Wait, that sounded guilt trip-y, you don’t have to apologize, nevermind, this is-”

“We could still talk about things.”

Martin’s head snaps up at this. “What?”

Jon shifts so that his body is more angled towards Martin, leaning his shoulder against the wall instead of his back. The morning light is slowly working its way into the hallway from the living room, lifting the slight chill that came in with the night. Jon sets his jaw and continues. “I don’t see any reason why we can’t still talk about things even if the conversation started off… less than satisfactory. And it could be good for you. So. What do you want to talk about?”

Martin stares for a moment, seemingly baffled. Jon hopes him simply starting a conversation isn’t confusing. He knows he’s not the most talkative but it can’t be _that_ strange, right? It’s for Martin’s health, after all. Social interaction will keep him away from the Lonely, which he seems to need now more than ever. And- and if Jon’s honest with himself, he needs a semblance of normalcy probably as much as Martin does. Even if that means sitting on the floor outside the bathroom making an ass of himself.

Something in Martin’s eyes softens though, and he also shifts so that he’s facing Jon. “...Well,” he starts, “I realized we’re probably going to be, um, living together for a while, and I also realized I don’t really? Know much about you? I mean, outside of work. So, um, that stuff? Any, y’know, family? Or uh… friends? Outside the Institute, I mean.” 

Jon chuckles, a thin and brittle sound. “I mean, there’s not much to say. I… don’t have any living family anymore, and I’ve been told I’m rather… abrasive, so I don’t have much in the way of friendships. I… really do spend most of my time at work. Well,  _ spent, _ I guess.” Hm. That was depressing. “W-what about you? I’m sure you have some people that aren’t from the Institute that you talk to, right?” 

Something flat and pleasant snaps up behind Martin’s eyes at this and he rubs the back of his neck, smiling. “Well, I mean… not really?” He laughs. “I was mostly taking care of my mum, so I didn’t really have much free time outside of that and then- and then the Unknowing happened and Peter showed up and I ended up pushing away the people I was at least  _ kind of _ close to even within the Institute, so…” He stops, and as he does he slumps a fraction as if the words took something from him. “No, I guess. Sorry, I rambled a bit.” 

“No it’s… it’s fine.” It’s an unexpected blow to realize that Martin is so similar to him. He always seemed so… well-adjusted, at the Institute. So easygoing and friendly, to the point where he aggravated Jon simply by being too  _ nice.  _ Jon squirms at the memory. It had been so easy to feel superior, to feel justified, in his constant antagonism. Martin was simply too caught up in whatever pleasant nonsense he was projecting to be contributing any  _ meaningful  _ work, which was his job as Jon’s assistant. So he relished the opportunity to… “remind” him of what he was supposed to be doing instead. Looking back now it’s easy to see how bitter he was about it. There had been a jealousy to how earnestly Martin took to people with no stumbling or bristling, which if Jon’s honest still lives in a tiny shut away corner of his heart. After everything, he wishes he could take it all back. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out. It’s suddenly and urgently important for Jon to express this. “About how I treated you at the Institute. It was wrong. I…” There’s nothing else he can say. “I’m sorry.” 

That flat and pleasant expression is blown off of Martin’s face at this, and he stares at Jon with such a look of hopeful disbelief he has to look away. He hears a quiet exhale, like Martin’s released a breath he’s been holding for a long time. “I… I never thought I’d get that, to be honest. Thank you for that.” Martin’s voice is calm but vividly happy. “Gosh, I don’t know how to follow that up?” He laughs again, and the sound of it is warm and real and it makes Jon flush like a schoolboy. Christ. “Um, ok, what else do you want to talk about? I guess? Gosh.” 

Jon looks up again to see Martin beaming at him, eyes bright, and flounders for a second before he can think of a response. “Uh, how about… favorite… animal?”

“Cows,” Martin replies with zero hesitation, and his expression is so suddenly serious that a startled laugh flies out of Jon’s mouth before he can stop it. Martin stares at him, flabbergasted, before bursting into laughter as well, covering his mouth with one big hand. It’s as Jon listens to that bright, unrestrained sound, letting it chase away the shadowy anxiety that’s plagued him since Prentiss, probably, that he realizes that he’s heard Martin laugh more in this one morning than he has in… two years? Three years? 

Good lord. That… that won’t do. It’s almost a surprising realization, but Jon feels a sudden, almost frightening conviction that he will not let it be another three years before Martin laughs again. It’s important for- for his recovery. Yes. 

The Archivist in him, that traitorous thing, scoffs at the understatement.  _ There’s more to it, isn’t there? _ Thankfully, Martin starts talking again before he has to pursue that question. 

“Okay okay okay. Wow, that… that felt good! I should do that more. But-” His voice becomes grandiose. “-onto the more important question. What is  _ your _ favorite animal, Jonathan Sims?” 

Ah, finally an easy question. “I like cats,” he states. “Their arguments are well thought out and give no ground. Very respectable debate partners.” 

Martin blinks once before his smile grows wider. “I  _ see _ . Thank you for your insight, Mr. Sims.” 

“You- you’re welcome, Mr. Blackwood.”

Martin hums an affirmative, smiling faintly , before stretching his arms over his head and standing up. “Well, I… feel much better now, actually.” He looks down at Jon, eyes dark and bright and dazzling, and smiles again. “Thanks for that, Jon. I- I really needed it.” 

Jon feels his stomach swoop pleasantly and he has to struggle to maintain eye contact because he will not look away every time Martin smiles at him, damn it. “It was no problem, Martin. Let- let me know if you want to do it again.” 

“Talk on the floor in front of the bathroom? How about we use the couch next time?” 

“Yes, the couch…” Jon swallows, thinking about what had happened the night before on that couch. “Martin, about what happened last night-” 

He’s defensive immediately. “Jon, I- I’d rather not talk about it now if that’s okay-”

“What if you slept in the bedroom? With me? It- it- it’d be safer.” Jon feels a blush burn down his neck and up to his hairline.

Martin also turns red, and his eyes immediately skip down the hall towards the living room. “Well, I mean, I couldn’t, it’s your- you shouldn’t-” 

_ “Martin,”  _ Jon cuts him off. “Please.” The words come out slow, like they’re getting stuck to the roof of his mouth. “I don’t want that to happen again.”

Martin looks tense for a moment before it slowly eases away. “Okay… okay. Alright. Okay.” 

There’s a moment of quiet that feels far too serious for Jon. He’s about to say something to break it when suddenly a long drawn out grumble does so for him. Horrifyingly, he realizes it’s coming from his stomach. He doesn’t even  _ need  _ to eat, and yet his body finds ways to betray him anyway. 

Martin stares at him for a second before a smile quirks his lips. “Oh! I was going to make breakfast. Is there anything in particular you want?” He holds his hand out. It takes Jon a second to realize it’s to help him up, and he grabs it tentatively. Martin’s hand is warm and dry and much bigger than his, a fact that causes a traitorous twist in Jon’s chest. 

“Eggs,” he replies, folding away the feeling. He’ll sort through  _ that  _ later. “Please,” he adds, an afterthought.

Small steps.


	5. burned eggs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a visitor interrupts breakfast

Jon keeps staring at him.

Martin assumes it’s his hair. He still hasn’t gotten used to it, even though he can’t see it. Just the idea that some part of him has been _changed_ so dramatically leaves him feeling strangely violated, and it bites into him. He silently curses Peter, but there isn’t a lot of heart behind it. The man’s already dead. 

So yes. Jon’s probably staring at his hair. The problem is that he can’t tell _how_ he’s staring, which is disconcerting. Martin likes to think he’s gotten rather good at reading Jon. One has to, when they nurse a crush for as long as he has. He had learned by trial and error what Jon’s perfect cup of tea was solely through the small reactions he gleaned when he watched him drink it. So seeing the unreadable look in Jon’s eyes is… startling. 

It’s probably the hair. 

Casting the thought away, he takes the bowl of eggs he was whisking and pours it neatly into the pan on the stove. They hiss and bubble, and as soon as cooked enough he works his spatula around the edges, preparing them to be folded. Still he feels Jon looking at him. 

“What kind of eggs are you making?”

The question is almost startling. Jon’s never been very talkative, and ever since his coma his gaze has almost spoken _for_ him in a lot of cases. Martin’s seen him meet questions posed to him with little more than a glance, and yet the askers always moved away like he gave them some kind of answer. It’s… eerie. Probably an Archivist thing. 

Well, not everyone can communicate nonverbally, and Jon’s still waiting attentively for an answer. So Martin turns with a smile and explains. “Oh, I’m making omelettes? You said eggs but that’s, y’know, kind of broad, and scrambled eggs felt too… basic, so yeah! Omelettes! What do you want in yours?” He gestures to the ingredients spread on the table next to the stove. “I’ve got basil, cheese, some onion- oh but answer fast or it could burn.”

Jon’s eyes widened. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?!” He spluttered, eyes darting to the ingredients. He looks… incredibly anxious. “Uh- maybe-?” He pulls a hand forcefully through his hair. “Oh, just put whatever.” 

Hm. That isn’t the reaction he was expecting. “Uh, r-right! I’m sorry Jon, I should’ve said something earlier, I was… distracted.” By Jon, the person whose food he should be making before the eggs _actually_ burn. Stupid. He sprinkles some basil into the pan. 

“What kind of distracted?”

“Pardon?” Martin replies, and looks up from the pan to see Jon still staring at him. He still looks anxious, and worry begins to worm into Martin’s chest. 

“What kind of distracted? Like- like normal or…” He breathes out sharply, and his eyes dart around the room like he’s checking for eavesdroppers. When his gaze finally returns to Martin, it’s so quietly vulnerable it hits Martin in a familiar yearning part of his heart. He wets lips before continuing. “I have… things. That I deal with. With being the Archivist. Like, like when I’m… when I’m hungry. For statements.” He pauses and fidgets with his sleeves. He’s changed from the night before, now in khakis and a dull grey cardigan (does he get cold easily? Martin should see about getting some blankets) with sleeves so threadbare the fidgeting must be a tic. “I catch myself… _doing_ things sometimes. Going for a walk because I think I need air when I’m actually just. Looking for someone. So,” He looks suddenly determined, jaw set. “I want to know if this is just normal distracted or Lonely distracted. If that’s a thing you deal with.” 

It’s the last thing Martin expects him to say. For a second it strips him of his ability to speak, and he just stares, almost dumbfounded. Martin knows Jon. He knows how people work. And most of all he knows that the curve of his relationship with Jon has gone from open antagonism to paranoia to hesitant, awkward attempts at concern. This does not fit anywhere on that map, and it makes some small point in his heart shatter sharp and warm, He feels his vision get blurry with… tears? No. He _will not_ _cry_ right now, he’s already done it too bloody much in the past two weeks- 

“YoU’rE eGgS aRe BuRnInG, bLaCkEnEd-WoOd.” 

With gasp Martin whips around to face the voice which sounds like a sunburn, somehow. In the wall next to the front door of a cottage is, impossibly, _another_ door _._ It’s painted an unpleasant shade of ochre, and standing in front of it is a thing shaped like a woman with infinitely curly brown hair and a pantsuit so lurid it burns Martin’s eyes. 

Ah. It’s just Helen. Martin can deal with Helen. He pulls on a smile. “H-Helen! Hi! How are- how are y-”

 **“What are you doing here?”** Jon interrupts suddenly as a sudden white noise fills the air. Martin looks across the room to see him standing and staring at Helen like he’s hoping to burn a hole through her head. Wait, can he do that? Martin hopes he can’t do that. 

Helen’s lips twist into a variety of impossible shapes before settling on something frown-adjacent. “Do _NoT_ tRy AnD cHaRm TrUtH fRoM mY mOuTh, ArChIvIsT,” She answers darkly, and as she does Martin swears he can taste the color of her anger on the back of his neck. 

“Guys,” he cuts in. “Can you please not fight? It’s literally been less than a minute.” God, he’s forgotten how bad the two of them are together.

Jon’s eyes flick between him and Helen, and slowly the white noise leaves the air. He sits down heavily on the couch, still staring at her but not speaking. “Thank you Jon,” he sighs gratefully, before turning back to Helen. Her frown has literally turned upside down, and her arms are crossed in a way that makes it hard for Martin to see the end of them. “Helen, Jon does have a good point though? What um- no offence- what are you doing here? Basira told us she’d bring statements if Jon needs them-” 

“I aM nOt HeRe To FeEd ThE aRcHiViSt, BlAcKeNeD-wOoD,” she states, neon eyes flicking over disdainfully to Jon. “I cAmE tO… cHeCk In, I sUpPoSe.” 

Martin blinks. “Huh. That's… a surprisingly direct answer.” 

Helen’s smile loops wider. “WhAt Is A rIdDlE wItHoUt An AnSwEr? A tWisT wItHoUt A lInE? ThE tRuEsT lIe Is ThAt WhIcH iS iS nOt, AnD lIeS aRe My BlOoD.” 

Martin feels a wave of weariness crash over him. “Yes, that’s more what I was expecting. Do you want some breakfast while you check in or-? _Shit,_ ” He gestures to the stove and as he does sees the smoke rising from the pan. He hurriedly turns the burner off and whisks the pan over to the sink. 

Helen laughs then, a creaking, layered sound that makes Martin’s ears ring. “ThAt WiLl NoT bE nEcEsSaRy, BlAcKeNeD-wOoD. bUt PeRhApS wE mAy SiT aNd TaLk? I wIlL eVeN sAy WoRdS tO jOnAtHaN sImS, sHoUlD tHaT pLaCaTe YoU.” 

Jon almost sneers at this, an expression that sends a phantom fear of his scorn racing through Martin’s chest. “What could you have to tell us that would be in _any_ way practical?” He spits, leaning forward on the couch to stare intently at her. 

Helen brings one curling brown hand up to check her nails, the epitome of nonchalant. “OnLy A pOsSiBlE sOlUtIoN tO tHe FoRsAkEn AfFaIr YoU aRe CaUgHt In.” 

Martin has by this point turned to clean the pan, but when he hears this it slips from his fingers and hits the sink with a loud _clunk._ Silence fills the kitchen, save for the soft buzzing sound that seems to follow Helen everywhere. “What?” he breathes.

Helen’s grin is stretching off her face by this point. She picks her way circuitously across the living room in her technicolor heels and sits in a chair on the opposite side of the coffee table from Jon. His lips are pressed into a thin, hard line and his expression has focused into a barely veiled hope. He stares at Helen like she holds the solution to everything, which crazily enough, _maybe she does_. She looks at him for a moment, the pattern of her pantsuit swirling nebulously, before turning to Martin and gesturing to the couch next to Jon. “SiT wItH uS, bLaCkEnEd-WoOd?” 

Martin’s across the room before he’s really registering what he’s doing and sits down hard next to Jon. Helen nods and plucks a pen from the table, which is suddenly a garish teacup full of tea. She takes a sip and sighs, leaning back into the chair. The sunlight is fully streaming into the room by this point of the morning, and it reflects off the angles of her face in improbable ways, painting her stark and abstract. 

“Well?” Jon prompts, practically vibrating with expectation. “Are you going tell us what your solution is, or are you going to sit there drinking hallucination tea?” 

Helen hums at this, causing Martin’s teeth to vibrate. “I hAvE rEaLiZeD yOu MaY nOt LiKe ThE aNsWeR i HaVe.” 

“Any answer is better than no answer,” Martin replies immediately. Jon looks over at him, an expression like surprise flickering across his face, but Martin means it. For all his talk of slow recovery, he would die for an easy way out of what Peter did to him. Helen laughs again, the sound chasing itself around the room.

“I sUpPoSe So, BlAcKeNeD-wOoD.” She sets her tea down (it’s immediately only a pen) and steeples her long fingers. “I nEeD nOt ExPlAiN tHe PuLl Of ThE dReAd PoWeRs. ThEy LuRe OnE iN, iNeScApAbLe. YoU cAnNot DeStRoY iT’s ClAiM, oNlY sTrUgGlE aGaInSt It. Or,” She spreads her hands. “...RePlAcE iT. aS tHe CrEw Of ThE fAlLiNg TiTaN dId.” 

Martin feels a sinking in his stomach as Jon voices his thoughts for him. “...Crew? As in Mike Crewe? What are you trying to say?” 

The expression on Helen’s face is a funhouse distortion of rueful. “LoNeLy AnD sPiRaL aRe ClOsE. tHeRe Is A mAdNeSs ThAt CoMeS iN iSoLaTiOn, AfTeR aLl. HoW dO yOu KnOw WhAt’S rEaL iF oNlY _yOu_ WiTnEsS iT?” She waves her hand. “ReGaRdLeSs. If YoU lEt Me, I mAy… TwIsT tHe HoLd On YoU. ChAnGe YoUr… AlLeGiAnCe. It-Is-NoT-wHaT-iT-iS cOuLd OfFeR yOu SaNcTuArY.” She gestures to the yellow door across the room door and it opens, displaying its infinite curling halls.

“No.”

Martin is shocked by the vehemence of Jon’s response.

Helen frowns at him. “YoU dO nOt SpEaK fOr HiM, jOn-ArChIvIsT.”

“No. You can’t have him. He’s not- that won’t help.” Jon blindly reaches over and grabs Martin’s hand as he says this, seemingly on instinct, and squeezes Martin’s fingers. He feels his cheeks turning pink. 

Helen does not seem swayed. She cocks her head at an unnatural angle, staring at Jon through half closed eyes. “WhAt PaRt SpeAkS?”

“Pardon?” 

“WhAt PaRt SpEaKs, JoN? iS iT tHe HuMaN yOu OnCe WeRe ThAt StIlL fEaRs Me? Or Is It ThE aRcHiViSt, WhO iS aPpAlLeD bY aLl Es MeNtIrUs Is? YoU cOuLd HaTe HiM, sHoUlD hE sAy YeS. oR wOuLd It BrEaK yOuR lItLlE hEaRt, To SeE hIm LaUgH, aNd WaRp, AnD lIe?” 

That gets him. Martin sees the blood drain from Jon’s face as he opens his mouth to reply and nothing comes out. He pulls his hand back from Martin. “That’s not- that’s not fair,” he finally stutters.

Helen stares at him flatly. “It NeVeR iS, jOn-ArChIvIsT. aNd ThIs Is WhY yOu GeT nO sAy In ThE mAtTeR.” 

There is long silence. 

“Will it- will I be like you?” Martin finally says. 

Jon turns to him, betrayal on his face. Helen laughs again, clapping her hands and falling back into the chair. 

“Oh, BlAcKeNeD-wOoD! hOw DaRlInG! tHeRe Is NoThInG lIkE mE iN tHiS wOrLd.” Her eyes settle on him. They always unnerve Martin the most, one tiny dark pupil surrounded by a spiral of lurid neon colors so bright they seem at war with each other. “AnD sHoUlD yOu AsSeNt, ThErE wIlL bE nOtHiNg LiKe YoU eItHeR.” 

Her words settle like a stone into Martin’s stomach. He feels his hands clench in his lap and looks down at them. That would be… terribly lonely. “I- I don’t know if I can do that right now. You’re right, it’s… close. Too close.” 

Helen looks disappointed, but unsurprised. She stands from her chair, and suddenly she’s in front of her door. Martin’s in front of the stove, eggs sizzling away in the pan before him. Jon is on the couch. What? But- the eggs-

Helen runs her hand down the door, and it opens readily to her. “WeLl, ThInGs ArE aLwAyS cHaNgInG.” Her grin flickers back on. “MaYbE yOuR mInD wIlL tOo. YoU kNoW hOw To FiNd Me.” And with that, she breezes into her halls, door squealing shut behind her. 

Martin stares at the space where the door isn’t-and-is long enough that he almost burns the eggs. Again. He ignores how Jon is staring at him.

It’s fine. He’ll be fine.


	6. chest of drawers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which theres a fight, and a mistake, and a simile

It won’t leave him alone.

The thoughts stab into Jon’s mind, again and again, for the rest of the morning. Martin, accepting Helen’s offer. Martin, going from soft and calm and sweet to something more terribly bright. Martin, technicolor and sharp and twisting. Martin, bending impossibly up and down and always, always away from him. 

The door’s still there. At least, Martin says so. He can’t see  _ or _ See it, which bothers him more than he admits, but somehow it stays visible to Martin. Maybe it’s the Forsaken letting him. Maybe it’s Helen trying to rile Jon. If it is her, it’s working. He keeps catching Martin looking at where it must be, in the wall next to the front door, and an itchy, hot feeling he can’t name slowly build with each glance. 

It’s as they’re finishing breakfast that it reaches a breaking point. Jon gets up with his plate and walks over to the sink, expecting Martin right behind him. He doesn’t. Instead, he’s still seated at the table, staring at the wall with a furrowed brow. Like he’s seriously considering something. It makes something in him snap. “Martin. The dishes,” he says, and the words come out harsh and cold.

Martin jumps immediately, shoulders bunching up. He turns and looks at Jon, an expression close to fear dancing through his eyes, before it’s gone under a practiced look of sheepishness. “Right. I- uh- I was distracted. Sorry,” he mutters, standing abruptly from the table and grabbing his plate from the table. As he walks to the sink he snatches Jon’s from his hands too. He turns the faucet on and starts scrubbing, leaving the room silent except for the hissing water. 

Jon stands between him and the table, staring at his back and full of writhing guilt. Stupid. Stupid, stupid,  _ stupid _ . He makes a big deal about being a changed man and then the instant he gets  _ annoyed  _ he takes it out on Martin. “Martin,” he starts, taking a step towards him. Martin glances over his shoulder at him. 

“Yes, Jon?”

Fuck. Here goes. “I- I didn’t mean to sound. Terse. Just now. I just- Helen, it’s-  _ she’s _ playing games right now. And you- you’re getting caught in it. And I don’t want that for you.” 

Something chilly enters Martin’s voice. “Jon, I know how to handle myself. I handled myself for six months. Helen is a friend. She wouldn’t- she’s trying to help how she can.”

“And that’s not a good way of helping! She’s only doing it because it benefits the Spiral!”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know what she is, Martin. Sometimes that’s enough.” 

The faucet turns off and Martin turns around. He- he looks  _ angry,  _ and Jon remembers how hard Martin tries to look unthreatening, to slouch in, because suddenly he  _ looms  _ over Jon. “Then what are you, Jon?” He snaps, and now it’s Jon’s turn to flinch. Martin doesn’t seem to notice. “The Archivist? Servant of the Eye? Eater of trauma and fear? Is that all  _ you  _ want?” 

The air leaves Jon’s lungs for a moment. He’s heard these words before, from Basira and Daisy, from Tim, from Elias, from his own thoughts, but somehow hearing them from Martin hurts more. It  _ wounds  _ him, and he feels his own defensive anger rising to meet it. 

Martin seems to realize what he’s said an instant later and the blood drains from his face. He takes a step forward, folding in on himself again, making himself small. “Jon I’m  _ so  _ sorry, I- I- I don’t know why I said that-”

**“Why are you so angry?”** The compulsion slithers out before he even realizes it’s there. Oh shit. Oh shit, oh  _ shit- _

A light goes out behind Martin’s eyes. “I mean… have you ever been jealous? Probably, right? It’s- it’s like that. The Eye, it’s… different. Less cold. The Lonely’s cold. Sometimes I still think the cold is all I’ll ever feel. And then the hair… I’m really, really close to it, huh? I’m even starting to  _ look  _ like Peter.” He tugs his hair. “And I’m trying to get better but I’m so scared I’m just slipping deeper into it the more I struggle. I have a door to the Lonely too, you know? Like your knowledge door thing. So when Helen showed up and said she had an out- well, I was excited? Finally, a backup plan! And then you’re… less than thrilled. And that’s- that’s not fair. You get the simple Entity, the one I wanted. Or the one I would’ve preferred, I don’t know. …You know I used to read the statements and hope it would bring me closer? I even thought about trying to escape the Lonely through it, after the fog. But it didn’t work, really. I was… I can’t slip into it as fully as you do. I can’t let myself be someone else. I guess I’m too isolated for it now. But Helen’s right, the Lonely and the Spiral… they’re like neighbours? I can feel it. If I wanted to change, it wouldn’t be as big a jump as the Eye. So now we know-  _ I  _ know- that the Spiral is there as another option. And you’re trying to tell me no. That’s why I’m angry.” 

The instant he finishes talking, he sucks in a breath and stumbles back, hands flying up to his mouth like they could keep in the words he’s already said. He stumbles back from Jon, banging into the sink with a loud clatter. 

This is bad. This is really really bad. “M-”

“Stop,” Martin breathes, fingers caged over his mouth like he’s protecting it. His eyes are squeezed shut. “No more words, Jon.” 

This is really really really bad. Jon stays silent.

He watches Martin as slowly, he brings his hands down from his face. He steps away from the sink and starts to stride towards the door to the bedroom, and he makes it to the door frame before he suddenly stops and turns around. His stride is fast and full of restless energy, and when he reaches the sink he turns around again. He’s pacing. Through all of this, Jon has yet to look at Martin's face, terrified of his expression. But concern finally draws his eyes up, if only to gauge what Martin’s feeling and what he can do to help.

Jon has gotten very good at reading looks since he became the Archivist. At first he thought it was simply becoming familiar with his coworkers and recognizing their body language. But since the Unknowing and all the changes it wrought, he’s realized that people’s eyes have a lot to tell him. The windows to the soul, or whatever. He tries not to use it, but like the compulsions it just… slips out, sometimes. 

Because his life is fucked and it’s Martin, this is one of those times. He sees those eyes, a brown so dark they could be black, and the anger within them is so broad and hot he lets out a little sound as it rolls over him. There’s nuance to it too, which is worse. A fusion of empathy for Jon and guilt turning to stab back at the anger. A hysterical betrayal at the invasion Jon has just committed. A sharp and merciless understanding of something too specific for Jon to grasp. And over it all like a veil of fog, a learned kind of self hatred;  _ This is Jon. He saved your life. You should be grateful, and yet you’re so angry. Get it together.  _

It’s too much. Jon realizes he’s silently shaking his head, and shuts his eyes. 

The pacing stops. Jon hears a long, slow inhale and exhale. He hears Martin pad up to him across the hardwood floor. He feels- 

Oh.

Martin’s hand is resting on his cheek. The fingertips are cold on his cheekbone, but his palm is warm. He leans into it even as he knows he doesn’t deserve it, not now.  _ Maybe not ever,  _ he lets himself think, just once.

“Jon, open your eyes for me, please?”

Jon opens his eyes. Martin looks… very old. His face is weary, with a smile on that doesn’t reach his eyes. The anger in them has smoldered, but it’s still there a little. The grey hair completes the illusion; if he just had some wrinkles, Jon would think he’s sixty. But his useless tangents are cut short when Martin starts speaking again. 

“Jon, what you just did was… I can’t believe you did that. I thought we’d, I don’t know,  _ bonded  _ to the point where you could just- just  _ ask  _ me about these things and trust I would tell you. But you compelled… a lot of things I would rather not have told you out of me. And- and I’m angry that you did that.” Jon feels Martin’s gaze on him like steel, like heavy stones. “If you compel me like that again, this isn’t going to work. I won’t- I  _ can’t _ sit in this house and let you go through me like a chest of drawers, do you understand?”

Like nothing before in his life. He just nods. 

“Okay, because here’s the kicker,” he says, and he chuckles darkly. Christ, Jon would take Daisy having a gun to his head again than ever having to repeat this moment. “I am angry right now. Being angry, I would like to storm off. Have some time to cool down. However, I don’t trust myself enough at the moment to have that be time alone and not time  _ Alone _ , you know?” He drops his hand and takes a step back, giving Jon his space. He tries for another smile, and this one is a fraction more genuine. “So, I’m going to have to stick close to you. Can’t have the Forsaken get to me again, huh? And- and if I do this, then… then I’ll remember why I shouldn’t be angry with you, even if I am right now. Okay?” 

Too much. It’s too much. Martin is too- he’s too much. Too generous with him, too kind, too  _ good,  _ and Jon doesn’t know if he can handle it. He doesn’t trust his words. He just nods. 

Martin nods back, a determined fire in his eyes. Jon can See a fog as faint as the steam off a cup of tea curling off of him, responding to his anger, but he doesn’t give an inch to it. In fact, he looks at Jon and spreads his arms, a resigned look on his face, and asks “Come give me a hug?”

People don’t ask to hug Jon. His attitude makes sure of that. Normally, he’s able to ignore how the lack of touch gets to him, has even been able to fool himself into thinking that the surge of  _ want _ he feels at physical contact is revulsion, but somehow Martin breaks through those delusions like brittle glass. Jon’s closing the space and feeling Martin’s arms wrap around him before he’s finished processing the question.

It’s… different than before. It’s not as sweet as the other hesitant touches they’ve shared, but it’s just as tender. Martin holds him like a life vest in the ocean, like if he lets go he’ll sink into something cold and deep. Jon’s heart does that familiar twist again. 

“I love you, you know?” 

Jon freezes as he hears those words from above his head. Martin’s still holding him close, and he can’t see his face.

“Just- just so you know. I told you in the… on the beach, but I don’t think that counts, not really. But- but it’s true. I want you to know I don’t hate you, Jon, I can feel you wanting to ask, and I don’t. I’m- I’m just mad at you right now. But I love you, okay? Just because I’m mad at you doesn’t mean I don’t love you, understand?” 

Jon’s chest is a thunderstorm. He mumbles “Yes.” 

How is he ever going to be enough for the love of Martin Blackwood? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew hope u enjoyed this!!! i realized there hadnt been some angst for a bit so i decided to Cause Some Problems On Purpose ;> thanks for reading!


	7. walking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jon and martin go for a walk and it turns out a walk is just what they needed :)

The hug is more difficult than he thought it would be. The instant Jon touches him it sends chords of revulsion thrumming through his body, and Martin has to physically resist pulling away. Not because it’s _Jon,_ but because he is angry, and in his anger he is Lonely. The Lonely hates physical touch. But he refuses to let it stop him, to control how he interacts with Jon like it controlled how Peter interacted with him. God, Peter. He never communicated anything meaningful because being Forsaken made it that much more difficult. As Martin thinks of him he feels a wave of spite rise inside him at Peter and all his cheery deflections. 

So, he confesses. Again.

It still hurts in that abstract, antithetical way he’s come to associate with the Entity, but it’s all true. Simple, even. And feeling the tension minutely bleed from Jon’s shoulders, well, it helps. 

And then it gets too much and he has to let go.

He steps further from Jon than he meant, and he’s able to take all of him in as he registers Martin’s sudden absence. The expression in his eyes is quietly crushed, even as he tries to smooth it away. “Um,” he starts, “What do you want to do now?” He’s never had to deal with Martin’s anger, and it’s painfully obvious he’s being as delicate as possible. Martin can relate, he’s never been this angry at Jon before. It sits in him awkwardly, smoldering and inconsolable. 

“How about a walk? It seems nice out today,” he replies. It isn’t really, the sunlight is weak and the wind looks too strong to be pleasant, but Martin doesn’t know if he can stay cooped up in the cottage like this. 

“Oh, that’s- yes, let’s do that,” Jon says, visibly relaxing. Maybe he needs the fresh air as much as Martin does. “Let me grab my coat.” He hurries across the room to the hall, looking back at Martin over his shoulder. “Wait, should you-?”

“Yes, yes, right behind you,” Martin sighs, following him. The Lonely in him quietly curses. 

They’d really only arrived the day before, but somehow Martin expects Jon to have… done more to the room, when he sees inside. At least put his luggage away. But no, everything is still where he set it down when they first entered the house. His suitcase is open now, the clothes inside of it folded but escaping onto the floor. The blanket is twisted out of the bed towards the door like it’s trying to run away. Jon steps over it and grabs his jacket from where it’s hung on the bedpost before he notices Martin staring down at the knotted length of cloth. He blinks suddenly in realization. “Oh. Right. I… I Knew what was happening last night. It, um, it woke me up and I panicked and ran in…”

The first half stops Martin short. “Wait, you knew?” 

“No, I-” He swallows and tugs his coat on forcefully, like he’s channeling his anxiety into actual movement. “I _Knew._ Like Beholding-knew. That’s how I got to you in time.” 

“Oh.” That’s… concerning? “That makes sense.” Why would the Eye _save_ him? He could have dissolved on the couch for all it cared. The only one who gave a damn in this house was Jon. Then- then had _he_ done it without even knowing? He did just compel Martin, seemingly without realizing it. Is he… slipping? He would have to keep an eye on that- 

“Martin?” The concern in Jon’s voice brings him out of his spiral. 

“Uh, yes?”

“Sorry, you just looked… I don’t know.” His lip curls and he shakes his head, as if shaking the thought away. “Let’s go for that walk.”

The air outside is chillier than it had been the day before, but not like the Lonely’s damp and clinging cold. This is dry and clear and fresh, and Martin lets it scrub over him like ice water, chasing off the last ghosts of grogginess and hysteria that stuck around since morning.

The anger is still there, but less. 

Jon stands ahead of him, face turned to look down the hill. A gust of wind catches him from the front, blowing his hair and coat out behind him. Martin once saw a painting when he was scrolling through social media, posted by some generic aesthetic account. It was, ironically enough, titled _Wanderer above the Sea of Fog._ Looking at Jon now, he’s suddenly reminded of it. He’s suddenly reminded of how beautiful Jon can be in the most ordinary of moments. 

Enough of that. He walks up behind Jon. “Where do you want to go?” he says, speaking over the wind. 

Jon jumps and turns to face him, face a mask of panic for a moment before he sees who it is. “Sorry, you sneaked up on me,” he says, chuckling awkwardly. Martin is silent. The anger still sulking in his chest prevents him from reassuring Jon like he normally would, and he doesn’t like it. It feels… unwieldy, like he’s weighed down by a big bag of it wherever he goes, trying not to bother people with it but making it all the more obvious in the process.

It’s needless to say that Martin isn’t angry very often. “Sorry about that,” he replies, because he realizes he’s been quiet for far too long. “Let’s just go to town.”

So they walk. Martin used to walk around London a lot, before everything at the Institute happened and it became too dangerous. After Peter came along though, he got a feel for it again, gliding through the streets completely invisible to passersby. Now he has to actively resist calling it up, the muscle memory of it almost catching him by surprise. He looks around him instead, mentally cataloguing the countryside to distract him from the fog he feels tugging at him. 

There’s the fields, with their old wooden fences sectioning them from the dirt road. There’s the trees beyond them, dull orange and brown as they drop leaves for winter. There’s the rocks in the road under his feet that he has to be careful not to trip over. There’s the town in the distance, houses like little toys he almost thinks he can pick up to look at, if he wants to. There’s Jon, a few paces behind him, not as used to stepping lightly over uneven terrain as he is. Not much of a walker then. There’s- 

Hm.

There’s someone else walking up the road towards them. They’re pale, dressed in an orange down jacket and a grey hat, holding a walking stick. So they’re hiking. Are they an Avatar? Martin’s never seen them before if they are. They don’t… _feel_ like an Avatar. 

The realization that he can sense this kind of thing should bother him, Martin thinks. But it doesn’t. Instead he just feels… excited? 

He and Jon haven’t stopped walking, and eventually they come within earshot of the person. The person’s face lights up. “Excuse me! Do you know where the hiking trail is? I’m visiting and my sister and she told me there’s one up this road, but I haven’t-”

“Oh yes,” Martin replies, cutting them off. He feels… better. The anger isn’t there anymore. He just feels that excitement. His voice sounds odd in his ears, almost jolly, and completely lifeless. “I know exactly where the trail is.” He turns and points, and the fog (the fog?) seems to part, revealing a path winding into the field next to the road. “That trail is wonderful. Very peaceful. No one on it.” 

The person’s smile falters. “Oh… okay then? Thank y-”

“Wait!” 

Jon suddenly breaks through the fog, (the fog. Where is it coming from? The wind had been sharp, the air clear, what is happening? Something is wrong) breath heaving like he’d run down the road to catch up. “Don’t go down that trail. It’s dangerous.”

The anger comes back, harder and sharper and Martin hates the Archivist for ruining his plan. “Jon-” 

“What did you say your name was?” the Archivist cuts him off, addressing the person. 

Their smile is gone now. “...It’s Elena. What’s dangerous about it?”

“It’s easy to get lost. You could lose your way.” The Archivist is staring at Elena very intensely, eyes boring into them. The fog has pulled closer, obscuring the countryside. Elena takes a step back. 

“...I think I took a wrong turn,” they say, stepping back. There is fear in their eyes. “Thanks for the help.” And with a turn of their heel they plunge into the fog down the road. Martin feels the itch of the Eye guiding them back to town. 

“That wasn’t very nice of you, Jon,” he scowls, the fog breaking apart and letting the sunlight stream back through. 

The Archivist whips around, a mix of fear and fury lighting up his face. “Martin. What did you just do?” 

“I tried to feed that person to the Lonely,” he answers without missing a beat. A second later the truth of the statement catches up with him. 

Oh God. 

_He tried to feed that person to the Lonely._

He hears a thud and vaguely realizes he’s fallen to his knees. He hears a voice and realizes it’s Jon’s. God, Jon. If he hadn’t been there… Martin doesn’t want to think about it. Things are clearly much worse than he’d thought. He’s _never_ tried- he’s never _done-_

What is wrong with him? He should have listened to Helen.

“No,” He hears Jon say acidly, and realizes that he said that last thought out loud. “Then you would have done the same thing with doors instead of fog.” Oh. Jon’s cupping his face. He really wishes that every intimate moment they’ve shared wasn’t due to trauma or shock. Is he in shock? 

“Jon I-I-I don’t know what’s happening to me I don’t know why I did that I didn’t even notice-” Ah. Rambling. Definitely in shock. 

“Shhhh, Martin, Martin, dearest, it’s alright.” Jon pulls Martin close. “You couldn’t have stopped it.”

“I could have I was the one _doing_ it-”

“No.” Jon replies, and he sounds so weary. “Trust me. You can’t stop yourself when you start a hunt.”

The remembered statement regarding the Archivist hangs over their heads like a shroud. “I don’t know if trying by myself is enough anymore,” he mumbles into Jon’s shoulder. “I thought I could handle it on my own but- but it’s not _working_.” 

He hears Jon let out a sigh like a laugh. “Martin, I don’t think you can defeat the Lonely by being alone.” 

Martin lets out a watery laugh into Jon’s coat. It smells like wet wool and old wood. “Well, when you say it like that it sounds obvious, doesn’t it?”

“I’ve been known to state the obvious, on occasion.” 

Martin laughs again. The wind rustles the faraway trees, and the sound soothes him. Jon is still hugging him, and he’s warm. Martin realizes with relief the anger is gone. “What do you think we should do now?” He murmurs after a while. 

Jon hums, thinking. “I think we should go to town for the day. A lot of people could be good for you.”

Martin hates the idea, but he doesn’t trust that hate. “Alright.” He moves to get up, and Jon immediately breaks away. They both rise to their feet at the same time, standing barely two feet apart. Martin thinks he can feel every inch of it.

“Hold my hand,” he blurts out suddenly. “We did it after Peter. I think it will help. You fell behind before.” 

Jon blinks and then blinks again, his face flushing darker. “Are you sure?”

“Yes it’s a good idea.” His words come out all at once in a rush, like if he doesn’t say it now he never will. Hell, it could be true. 

Jon lets out a short breath, seeming to psych himself up. “Ok. Yes. Ok.” And he thrusts out his hand as if for a handshake. Martin takes it.

In the end, Martin doesn’t know how much the hand holding actually helped combat the Forsaken. But, walking along the road, linked hands swinging between them, he still thinks it was a brilliant idea. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay!!! i told myself id try to finish a chapter a week and that just.... didnt happen on this one. hope u enjoy!


	8. people-watching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which theres a coffeeshop date (kind of)

Jon needs a game plan. 

As their hands swing between them he mentally compiles all the information he has on Avatars of the Lonely. The fog of the Forsaken blurs the Eye’s gaze, so mostly he has to rely on the statements and personal experience. So, where to start? Well one: Avatars have to feed their gods before they themselves are eaten, which Martin has clearly demonstrated a need for. He would have to figure out a solution to that. Feeding doesn’t bother him when  _ he  _ does it, but the thought of Martin sending people into the same Lonely Jon pulled him out of makes something in his stomach curdle. 

Avatars of the Lonely also seem to thrive on isolation, which means prolonged social contact may reduce the Lonely’s hold on Martin. They’ve already been putting it in practice with just Jon, but surely the more people around the more effective it would be, right? Besides, Martin loves people. More than Jon does, anyway. He’ll be fine. Right? Yes. He will. 

When they reach the town square, Jon realizes he may have miscalculated. 

The walk into town had started well enough, Martin nodding a hello to a woman walking down the street, posture at ease and loosely holding Jon’s hand. But as the buildings get denser, cobblestone and shingles rising up from both sides of the street, Martin starts to tense. He grips Jon’s hand harder and harder until it’s white-knuckled and aching. 

“How are you feeling?” Jon murmurs to him as a pair of teenagers breeze by them, talking loudly, and Martin flinches slightly away from them.

“Like I’m about to scream,” he laughs back, eyes darting around. He huffs a sigh. “Are you sure we can’t go back to the cottage?”

“No, none of that,” Jon replies immediately, pulling Martin along faster. “You are going to kick this if it’s the last thing we do.” It’s as he’s saying this that he spots a small coffee shop across the street.  _ Perfect _ . “Let’s go get coffee. People-watch.”

Martin flushes. “...Are you sure? You never struck me as a people-watching person.”

Well, isn’t that rich. “I’m the Archivist, Martin. I think I’m entitled to a little watching now and then.”

He means it as a joke, but Martin suddenly stops walking, pulling Jon to a halt with him. His expression is pinched, like he’s taken a bite of food just past its expiration date. “Jon, you’re not trying to… feed, are you?” he says, voice wary.

“What? No! Why would you-? I’m trying to  _ help you,  _ Martin.” His voice has risen by the end without him even realizing it, but he doesn’t really care. He’s trying. He’s trying so hard. Why would Martin-?

Martin seems to realize his error, hands raising placatingly. “Ok, I’m- I’m sorry. That was out of line. I know you’re trying too, and- and I shouldn’t say that.” 

“...No it’s- it’s happened before. It’s a justifiable concern,” he murmurs heavily. He’d gotten similar accusations back at the Institute, it shouldn’t be a surprise that Martin would harbor similar doubts. 

“No, that’s not the  _ point,”  _ Martin replies vehemently, stamping his foot with the statement. He looks almost as agitated as when he paced at the cottage. “I hurt your feelings. I don’t- I don’t  _ do  _ that.” He laughs, a touch hysterical. “It’s like I’m not even myself. I’m sorry, I just- I feel strange. That’s not an excuse, but- yeah. Oh, I made it about me again-” 

“Martin,” Jon cuts him off. Well, it seems they’re both a bit of a mess. “I understand. It’s been a stressful morning. It’s okay that you need to talk about it. …Do you want to get coffee?”

Martin stops short, and just looks at Jon for a moment. A biting breeze whips down the street, snagging the ends of the blue scarf hanging from his neck. It’s sunny out, and it does wonders for his appearance. When it’s overcast or dim, Jon notices he looks… insubstantial, somehow. Sometimes, when it’s really bad, Jon thinks he can see  _ through  _ him, as if he were merely a figment of Jon’s imagination. But the morning is bright, and the light reflects solidly off his silver hair and the black rims of his glasses. It’s reassuring, given how ghostly he had looked on the road with Elena, eyes dull and voice cordial but dead. But when Martin looks at him now, his eyes shine with life and weary humor. “Sure, but if you think I’m not getting tea you’re some kind of fool.” 

That pulls a chuckle from Jon’s throat. “Changing it up once in a while wouldn’t kill you, Martin,” he replies, smiling.

“Nope, not listening to that. C’mon, let’s go.” He grabs Jon’s hand and pulls him down the rest of the way to the crosswalk, and then across the street and into the shop. 

It’s small. Cramped, even. There’s a counter in the back with a chalkboard menu displayed above it, and round tables ring the room with barely a foot of space between the seats that surround them. It’s busy, people lined up almost to the door, and most of the tables are taken by people working away on laptops or sitting together talking. The small space only amplifies the noise, voices from the workers behind the counter competing with the shuffle of chairs and cups and conversation from the customers. 

Jon doesn’t think he could’ve picked a better place. 

The line moves surprisingly quickly, and they reach the front sooner than Jon expected. For all his talk, Jon ends up ordering a cup of green tea with lemon for himself, and Martin orders chamomile. His voice is strained as he does it, but that’s to be expected. He’s doing the right thing. He’s  _ helping.  _

It’s when they find seats at a table shoved into the corner that Jon has doubts. 

Martin looks… not good. His face is pale and drawn, his hands are gripped in front of him white-knuckled, and every noise causes his shoulders to jump. He looks pained _ ,  _ and abruptly Jon realizes he’s the one who caused it. He’s helping but- but there’s a limit, isn’t there? He clears his throat. “Martin, are you ok? We don’t- if it’s too much, we can leave.” 

“No,” he almost spits, voice tense. “I just- I can do it. I want to try.” At that moment a waitress brings over their tea, and Martin very loudly and stiltedly thanks her. She smiles awkwardly at him for a moment before walking back behind the counter. Martin’s gone from looking pained to ill. He turns back to Jon, and he must see the guilt on his face because he quickly adds, “And trying isn’t going to feel good! I know this. But I want to. You’re not forcing me to do this, Jon. I want to.” He picks up his mug and takes a sip. 

“...Right,” Jon answers, looking at the tea in his cup. The silence at their table stretches. He absently traces the whorls in the scarred wood of the table, nail catching on a circle and winding around it, over and over. Finally he grabs his own mug and takes a sip. It’s… alright he supposes. Not nearly as good as Martin’s. 

Martin laughs across the table from him, the rhythm of it shaking off some of the tension from him like snow off a tree branch. “Well I’m glad to know my skills are appreciated,” he says, smirking a little.

Shit, did he say that out loud? He feels his face flush. “Well, it is the, um, truth, you know,” he pivots, deciding to run with it. Who knows, if he can make enough of a fool of himself maybe Martin will forget to be anxious. 

It seems to work. Martin rolls his eyes, a playful smile on his lips. His shoulders relax a little. “Yes, I make the best tea to your exact awful tastes.” 

“Oi, say what you want, but you’re the one making it for me anyway.” He leans back in his chair, taking another sip from his mug for emphasis. Martin hums, eyes skimming out to the rest of the people in the shop. Jon’s eyes follow, staring out at the line. Really, you wouldn’t expect simply staring at strangers to be so intriguing, but Jon’s always found it so. Even before it became a way of hunting. His eyes snag on a lanky teen with wild brown hair who’s fidgeting nervously in line, staring at the menu. He leans over to Martin and whispers, “Kid with the crazy hair. What do you think his story is?”

Martin follows Jon’s gaze until he finds the teen, and chews his lip for a moment as he contemplates. “I bet he’s never been to the shop before and doesn’t know what to get.” 

Ah, Martin must be new to people-watching. “Well,  _ yeah,  _ but what about everything else? His life?”

Martin laughs again. “You take this people-watching thing seriously, huh?” A moment passes as he thinks again, eyes squinted. “Hm. I think he goes for really long walks and… and has one dog but wants another one.”

“Yes, now we’re getting somewhere. Well, I think he’s trying to grow a beard and is too proud to realize it isn’t working.” 

“What?! How can you tell that?” Martin leans towards the line trying to see better, before thinking better of it and going back to his drink.

“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? He has that scruff on his face, and if it’s visible from here that means it’s been too long since he’s shaved, but it’s patchy. Only someone desperate wouldn’t shave off that monstrosity-” 

Martin snorts into his mug. “Speaking from experience?” 

Jon’s hand immediately flies to his face and the scraggly not-quite-beard that grows there. “If- if it looked bad I would shave it! I’m not like that kid. Wait, does it look bad? Martin, you have to tell me if it looks bad-” 

Martin bursts out laughing, smiling flashing wide like a sunbeam. “It looks good, Jon, jeez! I didn’t know you cared about that stuff.” 

He’s right. Jon doesn’t normally care about his appearance. Even now his hair is raked into a bun made more of tangles than anything, and the cardigan under his coat is peppered with holes. But he cares if Martin cares. Or whatever. It isn’t important. He coughs. “Ok, well, yes. It’s your turn to find someone now.”

Martin smirks. Jon likes all these smiles, given to him so easily like fliers. “So it’s a game now?”

“Yup.” Jon feels his own mouth quirk up at the edges.

“What does the winner get?”

“I- I guess we’ll figure that out when we get there,” Jon replies, something erratic and bright tripping through his chest. What is he saying? He doesn’t know, but it feels good to say. One of Martin’s eyebrows ticks up. He leans back, slowly, and looks back out over the shop. The noise swirls around them still, but it barely seems to bother Martin at all now, only a slight tenseness to his shoulders giving it away. That’s good, the crowd’s helping. They should definitely do this more, maybe come back here-

“How about that one?” Martin says, nodding towards an old woman wedged into a corner, coffeecup clutched in her hands and hair tucked into a neat bun. 

Oh.

Jon used to think it was impossible to tell who the Entities had touched. It seemed so random, each statement giver a random person out of thousands, that trying to pick one out of a crowd would be a fool’s errand. And yet… with time, he’d been able to do just that. It was a subtle thing, and different for every Entity. For the Eye, it was a peculiarly empty brightness in the gaze of Elias, of his assistants, like a house with all the lights on and no one home. When he’d met Jude, he almost thought more than felt the heat that came off of her. For Peter (and for Martin) a soft fatigue settled on him like a layer of snow, dulling his senses. It was a useful ability, good for picking out dangers and later, his hunting targets. 

This woman’s been touched. He knows it. The vertigo of the Vast breezes over him when he Sees her. And tea is good, but Jon’s hungry. The knowledge comes easily: Ella Spencer, maiden name Ella Campbell, worked in an accounting firm before retiring at age 61. 20/170 vision, but has misplaced her glasses after they were knocked behind her dresser by her cat. She doesn’t like her coffee, but her coffee maker stopped working at home and this was the closest shop. The Falling Titan found her on a trip she’d taken to America decades ago, in New York City. He has to talk to her. Hear her story. “I’m going to talk to her,” he hears himself say, moving to get up.

A hand closes around his wrist, and he looks away from his target for a moment to assess it.

Martin has steel in him that Jon’s never witnessed before. He knows he has it, given what Martin has done for him and everyone else at the Institute, who he’s faced down. But Jon’s never actually seen it in action before. 

Or at least, he hadn’t. Now Martin’s mouth is set, one hand is still wrapped around his mug, and his eyes burn with such intensity Jon almost does a double take. “Jon,” he says, voice perfectly pleasant. “If you stand up now we’re leaving.” 

“Martin, listen-” He’s just hungry. Is that a crime? Martin should understand, Martin always understands-

“No, Jon,  _ you _ listen. I’m having a nice time. A great time, even. Talking to you is nice. This tea is nice. I’m sure that lady is nice, too. What  _ isn’t  _ nice, and what I will not tolerate, is you walking over to her and extracting her statement from her like it’s your morning paper. So keep it together, or we’re leaving.” His expression doesn’t change.

Slowly, Jon returns to himself. He stops trying to get up. It takes a huge amount of effort, but he resists looking back at Ella Spencer, instead looking into Martin’s eyes. They’re so dark, almost black, and they look so tired. “I’m sorry,” he says simply. There’s nothing much else to say, is there? “I’ll try harder.” 

Martin’s hand slides from his wrist to his hand, covering it comfortingly. “I know it’s hard, Jon. But… we just have to keep going.”

“Yes,” Jon whispers back, the word lost in the crowd. He stares glumly into his tea. 

“...Do you want to people-watch some more?”

“No.” 

Martin laughs quietly, in that false way he does when something’s wrong and laughing’s the only thing to do about it. “Yeah, thought not.” He looks around for a moment, then sighs and pushes his tea away. “This won’t do. Come on, let’s go walk some more.”

Jon blinks. “Are you sure? You haven’t finished your tea-”

Martin rolls his eyes. “Jon, that’s sweet, but I don’t care about the tea right now.”

A spark of that warmth relights in Jon’s chest. “Martin? Not caring about tea? I never thought I’d see the day.”

A real laugh rolls out of him at that, and it fills Jon up like no statement ever could. “Shut it, you goof,” he says at last, pushing his chair out. He stands up, fixing his scarf around his throat, and Jon rises with him. As they head for the door Martin slips his hand back into Jon’s, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. 

The door shuts behind them, and they stand on the sidewalk in the sun and wind, letting it whip over them. It’s strange. Jon never went to coffee shops on his own. Logically, he should’ve been just as uncomfortable as Martin when they went in. But… for a while, he’d had a nice time. He’d talked to Martin, and it hadn’t been about their hurts or trauma. It had just been… warm. 

A squeeze on his hand brings him out of his thoughts, and he sees Martin looking at him with something warm and deep in his eyes. When their gaze meets, his eyes flick away. The chill in the wind has put roses in his cheeks. “Which way?” he says, voice a little high.

“...Left,” Jon answers, and so their feet take them a winding way through the town, past shop windows and pedestrians that Martin doesn’t flinch from as much. 

It might not have been much. It might have ended badly. But Jon can see how Martin is relearning how to live in the world, away from fog and Peter and everything the Institute dragged him through. And it’s- well. It’s beautiful. 

_ He’s _ beautiful. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one took a while, but given recent global events i should have more time to write?? so whoo! i guess!! thanks for reading!!!


	9. peaches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jon and martin go grocery shopping, which leads to a hard talk

Days pass. Things settle, as much as they can. They do end up sharing the bed, and it’s quiet and awkward and starts with them pressed as politely far apart as possible and ends with them snarled together, Jon’s long hair in Martin’s mouth and the sheets wrapped up in ropes between them. Martin revels in it. He does not wake up full of fog that night, or the night after. The nightmares still come, but that’s old hat by this point, so he doesn’t think they count. 

And it helps that when they get bad Jon’s there to wake him up with low words and a gentle shake. 

Regardless, things do fall into a routine. They wake up, make breakfast, lounge in the living room for the morning. Basira drops by with a paper grocery bag stuffed full of statements on the second day, so Jon spends the early afternoon reading at least one. For lunch, Martin thinks but does not say. He doesn’t like being in the room with him when he’s reading, doesn’t like how his Jon falls away and some fearful ghost comes in, reliving their trauma through his voice. 

_ His Jon. _ God, that’s the biggest problem, isn’t it. Because, even though their days have calmed down, his  _ feelings _ have not. Jon calling him “dearest” on the street, their tentative touches, his confession that first day, the thoughts hover over him like fretful parents, plucking at every peaceful moment he gets. It’s enough to turn him to a stuttering fool when Jon does little things. Like make eye contact without warning, or brush against him when he walks by. 

By the fourth day, Martin almost wishes something would just  _ happen,  _ if only to give him some peace from his own damn emotions. 

It’s only three days later when his wish is granted.

On their way to the cottage, when Martin had been filled with fog and lying through his teeth about it, him and Jon had come up with a plan. In order to avoid… whoever could come after them, they would have to reduce time spent in the village as much as possible. As such, trips to get supplies would be sparing, and they would buy as much as they could on each trip, to further limit their excursions. It probably wouldn’t help against Elias, the man who knew everything anyway, but doing so had given them a sorely needed sense of stability. 

So that’s how they had ended up in the village general store, buying so much food they were getting dirty looks from the people working there. Jon had started micromanaging the instant they entered the store, and is now practically leading Martin by the hand as he navigates their cart around the store, scrutinizing everything on the shelves. 

“Jon, I’m sure we won’t taste the difference-” Martin starts wearily as Jon stops in the canned goods aisle, examining two different brands of kidney beans. 

“Martin, do you  _ know  _ the amount of bacteria that’s in the facilities these were packed in? Not to mention the price differences and quantity per can, I have to cross reference every bloody option in this store to find the  _ optimal beans-”  _

It’s at this point that Martin tunes Jon out to scan the shelves on his own for other things they need. It’s better to decide these things before Jon has a chance to analyze them into oblivion, and Martin loves him but the man can take  _ so _ .  _ Long _ . 

And then he sees the peaches. 

It’s funny, really, the kind of things that can break you. Slip past the barriers you cultivate to protect yourself and leave you wounded and reeling. Martin, hell  _ everyone  _ at the Institute knew this better than most. After Prentiss he had compulsively washed his hands until the skin was dry and cracked and bled. A piece of wavy glass had appeared on Sasha’s desk after her talk with Michael, and sometimes when she thought he didn’t notice he saw her gazing at him through it, like she was checking he wasn’t twisted in the same way. It’s needless to say that he and Tim had avoided yellow doors after their own encounter with the Distortion. 

But it’s also such stupidly  _ tiny  _ things. There’s an axe for chopping wood outside the cottage and all Martin sees when he looks at it is Tim, angry and raw, hefting one just like it as he charged to his death. A woman they’d passed in town had looked like Sasha, he thought, but she  _ didn’t,  _ because that  _ wasn’t Sasha,  _ and- __

He’s gotten good at dealing with these things, regardless. They barely even register on his face. 

But there’s a row of canned peaches in front of him now. The labels are bright yellow, the fruit printed invitingly on the front. Martin loves peaches, that’s why he’d had the cans in his apartment in the first place. He’d wanted to bake something, maybe even bring it to work. 

“-and not to mention the  _ production-  _ Martin? Martin… it’s alright. Shhh, I’m here, alright?” 

Jon’s voice is gentle and soft. His hands are clasped around Martin’s. Jon is… comforting him. Wait, why’s he comforting him? He’s dealt with it. He’s  _ fine _ right now. If Jon’s using his Eye powers to- to  _ read his mind _ or something-

And then his breath hitches and he realizes the cans are swimming in his vision. Oh _.  _ Oh, okay. 

And then he loses it completely.

It gets a little hazy after that. He knows Jon hugs him, and they stand swaying in the middle of the canned goods aisle for a frankly embarrassing amount of time. Someone kind hands him a packet of tissues and he blows his nose through checkout, ignoring the concerned looks of shoppers behind him. It’s as they’re walking back to their car, eyes puffy and red but blessedly dry, that he finds his voice again. “That was embarrassing, sorry,” he mumbles.

Jon looks at him, and the weight of his gaze almost pins Martin in place. “Martin, it’s- you-” he raises both of his hands even though his arms are laden with grocery bags, as if he can capture in gesture what he can’t in words. “You don’t have to act like it was nothing.” And Martin knows he’s not just talking about the meltdown in the store.

For some reason defensiveness rises in Martin’s throat. “But- I- it’s so old! It was years ago! And compared to everything that’s happened since, it doesn’t even-” He huffs out a breath and shuts his mouth before he can say something that worries Jon even more. But it’s still true. 

A myriad of emotions pass over Jon’s face anyway; concern to mild horror to a determination so grim it’s mildly concerning. But he doesn’t say anything, and instead marches to the car to put away his bags. After a hesitant moment, Martin follows. 

The drive back is silent. Jon doesn’t try to bring up the peaches again, so that… should feel like a victory? Or something? But instead he just feels more worried. Despite his insistence to the contrary, Jon only gets quiet when he’s brooding, scheming, or both, and Martin doesn’t like the implications of any of those options. But he’s driving, so he has to keep his eyes on the road and not Jon’s face, and whatever thoughts are playing across it remain unknown to him. 

At least, until they get back to the cottage. Martin’s preparing for, well,  _ something  _ when they get back, but Jon just takes some of the groceries and starts putting them away in the kitchen. After a second, Martin does the same. They pass a couple moments like that, moving around the space in that intuitive dance of opened cupboards and food passed hand to hand until it’s all put away. 

And then Jon walks to the little table they eat at and sits down, gaze drilling into him, and Martin knows his plan starts now. 

“Martin… sit down with me?” Despite his intense gaze, his voice is gentle. Almost a plea. 

And how can Martin argue with that? He makes his way over to the table and sits down, folding his arms on the table. “What do you want, Jon?” he says tiredly. 

Jon swallows and fidgets for a second. “I just… it goes without saying we’ve been through awful things.”

Already Martin feels himself fleeing from the conversation, because it’s one thing to know that and another thing to speak it into the air. “Yes…?”

“And- and we’ve never seen anyone about it.”

“Like a therapist? Well yeah,  _ I’ve _ never been to one.” Who would believe him? “I guess you haven’t either?” 

Jon nods. Looks down at his hands again. Opens his mouth. Closes it. “Okay so… I’m not a therapist.”

Already a bad start. “No, Jon, I- you’re great, but I don’t think I can handle psychoanalysis right now-”

“And I wouldn’t! That’s not my- that’s not what I want.” He sighs, and his hand moves a few inches across the table towards Martin. Martin is hyper-aware of its progress. “I think- I think we should. Tell each other about these things. Not to- to  _ relive  _ it or anything, but- so we know what to avoid. Or when we run into it, we understand why it’s an issue. Like the… the peaches.” 

That’s… surprisingly reasonable? Vastly revealing in a way that makes Martin shrivel internally, but… reasonable. He stays silent for a moment, caught in his internal struggle of agreeing or not. He expects Jon to backtrack at his silence like he so often does, following his own need to fill any awkward silences, but he doesn’t. He just sits there, worry and determination on his face. It’s a reaction so different it startles Martin’s mind to clarity for a moment, and in that moment he makes his decision. 

“Ok. Ok. I… let’s do that.” He replies, voice oddly rough. His own hand has inched across the table towards Jon’s, the little traitor. “Should… I go first or…?” 

Jon’s eyes flick around the room before settling on Martin’s face again. “Only if you want to,” he answers. His gaze still has that heavy, supernatural weight, but it feels more like a weighted blanket now, comforting and solid. Martin releases a breath. 

“Doors.” he states, forcing the word out. His heart is racing. Jon’s eyes are still on him, heavy and brown and full of gentle support. “Tim had the same issue. After the- after we got stuck in Michael’s halls. I don’t know if it was obvious in the last couple months considering his behaviour but… we left them open in the office, all around the Institute. We would… hold hands, before going in, so if it was Michael’s we could- we could pull each other out. When Tim died I- that’s what got me the most, I think. I couldn’t trust any of the doors. There was no one to pull me out. Melanie liked to slam them, wherever she went, so they were closed. I couldn’t- sometimes I’d stay in a room for hours until someone came in, just- just in case.” He heaves a shaky sigh, and realizes his hands have clenched into white knuckled fists on the table. “It got a little better when Helen was there, she seemed friendly enough but, but I couldn’t be  _ sure.  _ She could’ve just done it for- for no reason. I don’t know. I deal with it.” He slumps back in his seat. 

There’s grief on Jon’s face as he finishes, and that tiny little glint of satisfaction that Martin sees in him when he reads statements.  _ Well,  _ he thinks darkly.  _ Better this than someone else.  _ It’s gone quick though, as Jon opens his mouth for his turn, shuts it, opens it again. Their hands finally close the gap, fingertips hooked together, and the contact seems to steady Jon enough for him to start speaking. “I- well- you know about the spiders,” He starts, haltingly. “That isn’t… it’s not just from a normal phobia. I… when I was young there was, there was a picture book my grandmother gave me. A Leitner. I didn’t know it at the time, obviously, but it was… from the Web.  _ A Guest for Mr. Spider,  _ it was called.” He spits the title out like it’s bitter. “It did… well, about what you’d expect. I read it, and it was… awful.” His breathing is getting harsh. “This awful spider,  _ Mr.  _ Spider, and he didn’t like it he  _ never liked it  _ no matter what the flies brought him and- and as I read it I was taken to this- this  _ house _ and-”

“Jon,” Martin murmurs, soothing. “It’s alright. You don’t have to get into it.”

Jon’s breathing slowly calms down and he stares hard at the table, avoiding Martin’s eyes. “...Regardless, I made it out alive, somehow. Now it’s just… hard. To look at them. They’re all just  _ Mr. Spider  _ now.” He looks ragged somehow, like he’d taken a room in his house and wrecked it, furniture scattered and broken. It makes Martin ache, and he barely hears the comforting words that slip out of his mouth in response. 

They go back and forth like that for a while. Worms, after Prentiss’s gave him his first scars. Red meat, after Viscera attacked the Institute. A specific brand of body lotion, after the Circus had kidnapped him for weeks. Fog, for obvious reasons. The degrees of each vary, from a prickle of unease to full fledged panic, but hearing them all laid out together, each with a neat summary of their origin, compounds them into something with weight. It sits between them like a physical thing, and yet Martin can’t help but feel that it doesn’t divide them. All these things, all these fears, they had  _ survived  _ them. Each and every one. And in that way he feels more connected to Jon than ever. 

And yet.

There’s more to that connection. It’s not just trauma that’s drawn them together. It’s Jon’s hair, shiny and wavy and long, and how Martin’s always wanted to braid it. It’s listening to how he mumbles the words when he’s focusing on a book, not just the statements. It’s how he  _ still  _ tucks his glasses into his shirt collar even though he doesn’t need them. It’s the endless cups of tea Martin brought him, to try and bridge the gap. It’s all the small, meaningless, human details that hold them together, Martin thinks, delicate as a silk ribbon. And he loves that,  _ needs  _ that. 

And  _ yet _ . 

Maybe the Martin from before the Unknowing could have stuttered out those words, warm and needy and emotional as he was. Maybe he would’ve made a poem out of it, for God’s sake, if he thought it would help. But now Martin is blank, chilled, moving through the patterns of care on ghosts of emotion and muscle memory. Getting better, no doubt. But what’s better worth when it’s not enough yet? 

They’ve lapsed into silence by this point, drained from revealing the ugly fears that plagued them. Despite his assertions, Jon does look a bit less starved after it. At least it’s something. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “For humoring me. I think… thank you.”

He doesn’t want it to end like this, a polite phrase to bookend this exhausting conversation, however necessary it was. He opens his mouth to say as much, to say that they can share this but they can also share joy, they can share love, if Jon wants, if he would let him.

“It’s alright, Jon. This was… I think we needed to do this, eventually,” Is what comes out instead. 

Jon nods and gets up to pour a glass of water, and that's the end of it. Martin stays sitting at the table, staring down at his hands. Jon’s plan had gone well. They knew more about each other. Jon would know to avoid buying canned peaches and red meat and to close the curtains when it was foggy. Martin would know why Jon left the room so quickly when he saw a spider and to tell him if he saw a worm after the rain brought them squirming to the surface.It had worked. They were working together. They were closer. 

So why did Martin somehow feel like the distance between him and Jon had just grown?


	10. marionette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> martin and jon go for a walk, and when they come back a spider finds its way into their house.

Martin isn’t telling him something.

Which is fine. Jon isn’t going to push him if he doesn’t want to, isn’t going to Know, no matter how much Beholding yearns for it in his mind (he’s not a chest of drawers for Jon to go through. He’s _not)._ But somehow it feels… important. He could practically taste the words as Martin wavered at the kitchen table, and he feels like if they could just be _said_ the odd tension that still hung between them would finally be banished and they could be… friends. Or something. Maybe. 

That was probably just wishful thinking, regardless. Nothing ever worked out that simply. 

These thoughts are cut off as Martin pushes open the front gate, a screechy, rusted thing bolted to the low stone wall that circles the cabin’s front yard. They’d just gone for a walk together, which had gone exceptionally better than their trip into town, even if it gave Jon far too much time to think about things he’d rather not. “You look… refreshed,” he says to Martin, slowly. And it’s true; Martin looks refreshed from it, a glow to his face that Jon sees in himself after he reads a statement. 

Martin just arches an eyebrow, mouth tilting up in half a smile. “Well, it was a nice walk? I had a good time,” then Jon can see him guess what he’s thinking, and his face opens with the realization. “Oh- the Lonely? I don’t think- it didn’t really… it wasn’t a lot.”

“Martin...” 

“You were there! It kept me from going all, you know-” he waggles a hand back and forth. “Foggy. It wasn’t… it was good, yeah, but not for that. Y’know?” 

“...Well, if you’re sure,” Jon sighs, caving. He’ll just have to be attentive to any changes, then. 

“I _am_ , Jon,” he laughs, turning and walking to the door. “Now, do you want some tea? I don’t know about you, but a hot drink is just- oh, Jon, _wait.”_

Jon stops dead. Is there an Avatar? Some monster? He would Know, if there was- 

The static hisses through him as the Eye supplants the knowledge that Martin stopped him because… of a spider on the door. A bit of an anticlimax, even if Martin isn’t treating it like one. “Ok, ok just- just stand _right there._ I’ll, um, handle it.”

Some bitter part of Jon wants to scoff at him. _It’s just a house spider, Martin. Hardly something to worry about considering what we’ve faced._

The larger part of him is afraid of it. So he nods and stands back. 

It’s done quickly. Slowly Martin walks up to the door, cupped hand raised like he’s trying not to spook the spider. It stays completely still, a shiny black thing sat dead center on the pale wood. Something about it tickles at Jon’s mind, but before he can pinpoint exactly what Martin sweeps the thing into his hands and runs past Jon, opening them only to blow so strongly into his palms it goes flying out into the grass. 

“Martin! With your _hands-!_ It could’ve bitten you!” 

Martin turns around, unbitten palms raised. “Well, yeah I guess, but it didn’t!” 

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, a smile playing on his lips. 

Martin breezes past him for the door, opening it with a click. “Say what you want, but spider bites are actually pretty rare so I doubt-” Whatever Martin was about to say is cut off with an _ack_ as he walks through the doorway, bringing up a hand to swipe at something on his face and spitting. 

Cold panic blooms lightning quick in Jon’s chest. “Martin? Martin what’s wrong what is it-”

Martin blindly waves a hand at him, one hand still grabbing at his face. “Jon, no it’s- it’s fine, I just walked into a spiderweb.” 

“Are you sure? I- I just-”

“Here, come here.” Martin finally pulls the hand away from his face, fingers pinched around something invisible. As Jon walks up to him he can see it's a web, gleaming and waving gently between his fingers. His other arm comes up slowly to rest on Jon’s shoulder. “See? Just a web. Nothing to worry about.” 

Slowly, the staccato of Jon’s pulse calms back down. Martin’s right. It’s just a spiderweb. Hm. “But what if it’s…? You know, the _Web?”_

Martin sobers at that, expression turning gravely thoughtful. “Hm. Well? The Web never seems to be as… aggressive as the other Entities? So even if it is, it should be, well, better? Hopefully? But I’m going to be honest, Jon,” His eyes meet Jon’s, a tired smile on his face. “If I start to suspect every spiderweb of being a tendril of the evil god of arachnophobia out to get _me_ specifically, I think I’ll go crazy.”

Jon opens his mouth and shuts it again. A quick Look at the spiderweb doesn’t reveal any eldritch power lurking within it. “...Fair enough, I suppose,” He replies finally. 

Martin’s shoulder slump, releasing unseen tension like Jon had just given them permission to. “Well, now that that’s out of the way,” he states, moving finally into the cottage. “How about that tea?”

A smile plays on Jon’s lips. He really is quite lucky. “Yes, that sounds wonderful.” 

The rest of the evening passes with blessed uneventfulness. Martin makes the tea (excellent as always), and they sit together in the living room, alternating between reading and dozing. Jon starts humming a song he’s had stuck in his head since he heard it on the car radio, and as he does he watches Martin’s book slip further and further from his hands as his dozing turns to sleep. He sighs a quiet laugh and plucks it from his lap, marking the page before it gets lost and setting it on the table. He walks to the kitchen sink with his now empty mug, intent on washing it and returning to his book while sneaking glances at Martin’s sleeping form. 

And then, over the sound of the water hissing from the faucet into the mug, he hears Martin's voice. 

At first, he only hears mumbling. Does Martin talk in his sleep? He’s never heard it before, if he does. A movement from in the corner of his eye finally pulls his attention from the mug, and he glances over his shoulder to see Martin rise into a seated position.

Something is… _wrong_ about it. The movement is smooth. Consistent. As if he’s being pulled into place by an invisible string. His head tilts to one side, silver hair falling into his closed eyes, and then the other, before it turns in Jon’s direction. A strange smile pulls onto his face before he speaks. 

“Hello, Jon.” 

Blood roars in Jon’s ears. The timbre is still Martin’s, but the _tone_ of the voice is all wrong. Sweet and sharp. It only takes him a second to remember it spilling from his own mouth as he read the statement he found on Hilltop Road. **_“Annabelle,”_ ** he hisses, and static explodes off of him as his Gaze pins Martin’s body in place. **_“Leave. Now.”_ **

A vein bulges on Martin’s forehead, and Jon can see his eyes rolling behind his eyelids. “I’d be careful about that, Jon,” his mouth says, sweet voice completely unaffected by the strain the rest of his body shows. “It really isn’t me that you’re hurting with it.” 

_She’s right,_ the Eye whispers, emotionless and blunt as ever. Whatever Jon tries to do to the Spider, Martin will be a shield catching every blow. Clever. Slowly, he pulls the Watcher’s gaze back enough so that it isn’t weighing like the Earth itself on Martin’s mind. He can see his body visibly relax. **“What the hell are you doing here?** **_How_ ** **are you here?”** he spits, compulsion sharp and metallic on every word.

Martin- _Annabelle_ seems unimpressed. “Come now, Jon. We’re all friends here, no?” She stretches out one of Martin’s hands in front of his face, as if inspecting it with his closed eyes. “Well. Technically speaking, anyways.” Martin smiles. “Now, I’ll forgive the abundant rudeness of your demands and answer one of them; I’m here to fulfill a favor.” 

**“What kind of favor could you** **_possibly-_ **wait, a favor?” The compulsion stops abruptly as Jon’s confusion bowls him over. 

Annabelle shakes Martin’s head in exasperation. “Honestly, Jon, I’m not _heartless._ And I despise debts. I heard you were in a spot of trouble. Helen, bless her twisting soul, is _such_ a gossip.” 

That _damned_ Distortion. When Jon next sees it he’s going to- 

Carefully, he forces down his anger. The Web always plays multiple games at once, and Jon needs to be able to see them all without his emotions clouding his vision. “How did you find us? You’re no Watcher. And what are you- what are you _doing_ to him?” Despite his best effort, he can hear his anger and fear leak into his voice on the last question. 

Annabelle laughs, mouth flung open so wide Jon can swear he hears Martin’s jaw crack. “Aw, Jon, that’s so cute! You’re right, I am not one of the Beholding’s ilk, but the Mother is only a hair from omniscience herself. So many webs, so many spiders, you know how it goes.” She shrugs good naturedly, all _what-can-you-do?_ “And as for the second question, come _on_ Jon. Surely you’ve noticed by now, with those Archivist eyes of yours?” 

Jon’s about to bite out a retort, _enough_ with the stupid games, just give him a straight answer for _once_ . But then he looks. _Really_ looks. 

He’s almost sick.

Extending from every one of Martin’s joints is a single gossamer thread, so fine it would be invisible to anyone else, turning him into a ghastly marionette. A mass of them connects to dozens of points on Martin’s face, probably to allow for the various facial expressions Annabelle’s puppeted so far. God, they even extend _into_ his mouth, nestled into the gaps of his teeth like the world's most horrible floss, ensnaring his tongue in the thinnest cocoon. “How…?” He croaks, voice suddenly hoarse.

Annabelle throws back Martin’s head and laughs again, and now Jon can _see_ the impossibly complex manipulation of threads- of _webs-_ that make it possible, a puppetry so masterful it’s dizzying. “Funnily enough, it wasn’t the web on the door.” Martin’s body is thrust off the couch into a standing position, feet brushing the wooden floor as it starts gliding around the couch towards the table where Martin and Jon eat. “It was the spider. Plan A was that if you entered the house first, after Martin went beyond the front lawn to dispose of the spider, then the web would catch _you_ and I’d be having this conversation with Martin instead.” She pulls out a chair, and the light of the living room from behind lends Martin’s silhouette a huge and monstrous quality. Annabelle does not care to make him seem small as he does. “Such a sweet boy, speaking of. That’s actually why I’m here. Why don’t you sit down, Jon? We’ll do business, and then I can be on my way.”

It feels horrendous to do so. A mockery of the real ritual he and Martin have, eating at this table. Now the thing across from him is wearing Martin like a shirt and he’s powerless to do anything. So he sits, seething, hands curled into fists in his lap. **“Tell me the favor,”** he states, words low and deadly. 

Martin’s face turns stormy. “Take that tone with me again and I’ll leave a nice surprise in your beau that you can find later.”

“You wouldn’t- he’s not my _beau.”_

Annabelle shrugs airily. “Whatever helps you sleep at night. Though honestly, you two make my teeth rot, you’re so sweet.”

“Just get on with it.”

“Fine. Your friend here’s been a bit foggy as of late, hasn’t he?” She knocks one of Martin’s knuckles against his skull. “Can almost feel it, actually. It’s a deep vein, probably been cultivating it most of his life. He’s just barely toeing the Avatar line as it is, isn’t that sad? But so kind, despite it. Even to the bugs. And so _special,_ besides that.” 

Jon’s nails bite into his palms. “...What do you mean?” 

One of Martin’s hands toys with the thread connected to a finger joint, lifting it up and down rhythmically. “Well it’s just so rare for one person to have so many different persuasions, you know? Most people are really only predisposed to one Entity, and our Martin’s a fit for _three_ of them. Ceaseless Watcher, Forsaken, and if _Elias_ hadn’t snatched him up first,” A sharp smile that does not fit Martin’s face slides into place. “He could have made a fine brother of mine. Always so kind to the spiders, you know? And _so_ good at lying. Why, there’s still some secrets rattling around in this skull that you couldn’t even begin to guess at!” 

“Stop,” Jon breathes, bringing his hands up to his eyes. This conversation hurts. He hates it. He just wants Martin back.

“...I apologize, Jon. Sometimes it seems I talk just to hear the sound of my own voice. Well, not strictly _true_ at the current moment, but I think you get the point. You see, I’m here to offer my help in Martin’s… _resignation_ from the Lonely.”

Jon’s head snaps up. _What?_ **“How?”**

Martin’s lip curls. “Again with the compulsion! It’s like you don’t even know how to turn it off.” She readjusts Martin’s body in the chair, as if settling in for a long talk. “Well, I’ll answer, but the compulsion really was unnecessary-”

**“Just tell me.”**

“Fine. It wouldn’t be by becoming an Avatar, I know you detested that solution of Helen’s, and it wouldn’t work for the Web. No one to manipulate when you’re all alone, you know? So I offer a slightly more… inelegant solution.”

“Which is?”

“I would weave a web for your beau. A safety net if you would, to restrain his mind from the Lonely. Any instance it tries to pull at him I will know, and the spiders would chase it off.” 

“Absolutely not.” Like hell is Jon letting the Web near _anyone_ he cares about.

Annabelle sighs. “This is why I would have preferred to have this conversation with Martin.” 

“Why, so you could persuade him to see your side of things?” Jon spits, anger singing through him.

 _“No,_ because I knew you would try to shut my help out without even knowing his answer. Honestly, Jon, for a self-proclaimed enemy of the Web you’re quite adept in your own manipulations.”

“This isn’t manipulation! This is keeping him safe!” 

“Call it what you like, but where do you draw the line? Will you lock him in this cottage to keep him safe with you, Jon?”

“Stop calling me that. You don’t know me.” 

Annabelle laughs hard at that, and the sound of Martin’s laugh sends an ache shooting through Jon’s chest. “Oh, what would you prefer then? Jonathan? Mr. Sims? _Archivist?_ I know how the title gnaws at you. But this is hardly the point, Jon. Simply put, I am offering another way out, and you are trying to say no for someone else.”

 _And you’re trying to tell me no. That’s why I’m angry._

Martin’s words at the end of his statement flash through Jon’s mind, and he pauses. If he tried to say no now, he’d just be repeating the same mistakes… right? But what if Martin felt the same way? Then he’d be helping. 

…But what if he didn’t? Did he want to risk that? “...He wouldn’t… be like _you,_ would he?” he says after a long pause.

“Oh no, I was made how I am by- well. _Special circumstances,_ to say the least.” Annabelle replies imperiously, placing one of Martin’s hands on his chest. “But you know all about those already, don’t you? At most he may attract some spiders.” 

“And what do you get out of this?”

“Well, to be completely honest, this really would just be settling a debt. The amount of my spiders Martin’s saved is quite astonishing, I’m sure you can Know it if you want. And besides! Having a mutual friend wouldn’t be so bad, would it?” A cute little smirk purses Martin’s lips. 

“...I’ll talk to him about it,” Jon grits out, finally. 

Annabelle smiles wide at this, all teeth, and Jon can see where the webs rub at Martin’s gums until they bleed. “Wonderful. That’s all I need to hear, Jon. Now, it’s been lovely, but I really have to dash. Places to be, victims to ensnare, you know how it is.” If both of Martin’s eyes weren’t closed Jon is sure she would have winked. “So, toodles! Good luck on your quest for love!” And with that, every thread attached to Martin’s body is severed simultaneously, sending him toppling out of the chair and onto the floor. A puppet with all the strings cut. 


	11. a safety net

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which martin agrees to a deal

Martin falls asleep with a blanket across his lap, a book in his hands, and the sound of Jon’s humming in his ears. 

He wakes up to the sharp crack of his head against the floor, the taste of blood in his mouth, and Jon yelling.

Shit.

Had he slipped again? Was he in the Lonely? It… didn’t  _ feel  _ that way. Normally he’s just wrung out and cold, it was never this…  _ active.  _

God, his head kills. He must have made a noise, because suddenly Jon is right in front of his face, and he… he looks  _ terrified.  _

“Martin? Is it you? Are you with me are you okay how do you feel-” 

Martin brings a hand up to head, which pulses with a dull ache, waving Jon off as he moves into a sitting position. “Ugh. Jon, I- I’m okay-” His thoughts finally click into motion. “Wait, what do you mean ‘am I with you’? Why- why am I on the floor?” His vision finally focuses enough to make out his surroundings. “...And why are we in the  _ kitchen?”  _

Jon wrings his hands, twisting at his fingers so hard they go purple. “I- can I- can I touch you first? I-I need to make sure you’re- I need to check. Please?” 

Something's very wrong. “Um, I guess? But what’s going on?”

Jon is suddenly inches away from him, hands skimming up his chest and over his arms before fluttering up to his face. It feels like a checkup, more efficient and clinical than any kind of tender, but Jon’s face is so full of raw concern and focus that Martin’s breath seizes for a moment. This would be incredible, really, if he understood an ounce of what was happening. “Jon,” he states drily. “My mouth tastes like blood, and I’d really like to know what’s happening.” 

Jon’s hands pause on his temples before he snatches them away like Martin’s burning. “R-right. Yes. Of… of course.” He pauses fidgeting. “Do you want to rinse your mouth first…?” He says haltingly, pointing towards the sink.” 

“Jon, are you-? Why are you stalling?”

Jon avoids Martin’s eyes. “I don’t want to scare you.” His voice is so small. 

That doesn’t ease the mounting feeling of tension in Martin’s chest at  _ all,  _ but unfortunately the metallic taste in his mouth is starting to make him nauseous, so he gets up and walks to the sink, bending down to fill his mouth with water from the tap and spitting. The water rinses away pink. He straightens and turns to Jon, who somehow looks  _ more  _ tense than before. “So-”

“Annabelle possessed you.” 

Oh. “Oh.” The wheels of his mind spin uselessly, hearing the words but not processing. “Cane?”

“Yes. But it wasn’t- she didn’t… she just moved you. With- with spiderwebs. Apparently t-the spider on the door is what… is what did it.”

The wheels finally catch, and like a machine they start spinning out a single long ribbon of fear, cold and certain and filling him up utterly. He leans back against the counter to hide the trembling that starts in his hands. “O-okay. Okay. Oh my god. Did I- did I do anything? Do you- are you okay? Oh my god. After Mr. Spider-” The fear burrows deep, and he can’t escape it. It’s inside of him now and nothing will make it go away. He shoves off the counter and starts pacing again, pulling his hair back so roughly a few strands come away in his hands. Or is it a web? “Am I- are we safe? Can it get us again?”

Jon looks miserable, hunched and small like this is  _ his  _ fault, somehow. “No it’s- it’s not on you anymore, Martin.”

“But are you  _ sure _ ? I mean, the Web’s whole  _ thing  _ is subtlety-”

“Martin, she severed all the webs after she was… finished talking. I could-” A shuddering exhale. “I could see them. They’re gone now.”

“Okay. Okay.” He brings his hands up to his face, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes until spots of not-color danced behind his eyelids.  _ “Shit,” _ he breathes. The panic has settled to a low simmer now, but he can work with that. Lord knows he’s done it before. 

“...Are you okay?”

Martin laughs at that. It sounds mildly hysterical, high and a little ragged. “No, Jon! I- I don’t even remember what happened!”

Jon winces. “Right. Dumb question.” 

“...Hey,” Martin retorts, scrounging up a little smile. “Didn’t your teacher ever tell you there’s no such thing as a dumb question? Thank you for- for asking.” He pauses, finally acknowledging the burning want in his chest. He should really be satisfied, by this point. He woke up to Jon worrying about him, wanting to know if he was ok. He’d touched him to make sure. Even now, Jon looks at him like he’s the center of the world, like nothing matters as much as he does. It is, frankly, kind of glorious. He shouldn’t ask for more. “...Can I have a hug?”

Ah. Well, so much for that. 

Jon starts like he’s just been shaken awake. “Oh! Yes, yes of course, right! Yes. Sorry, I should’ve asked you if-  _ oof.”  _

Whatever else he was planning to say is cut off as Martin envelops him, back bowing as he leans down to place his chin on Jon’s shoulder. The fear doesn’t go away, but it settles as he holds Jon. He really is so small. It almost doesn’t make sense, that the weight of all of their ordeals hasn’t crushed him yet. It makes Martin want to hold this hug forever, hide him from whatever new monster tries to wring whatever fear they can out of him. Let them deal with him instead. 

A muffled noise from Jon startles Martin out his pining. “Jon? You okay? Sorry, should I loosen up-?”

“No!” The answer comes abruptly and almost sounds panicked. Martin can feel Jon’s face heating up. “I-I mean, no, I’m fine. You’re good. ...You give good hugs.” 

Martin laughs, a bit of pride unfurling inside him. “Well, that’s good! I like hugging my friends. I’m glad they’re good ones, even with all...” he nods his head around. “This.”

There’s a pause, and for a second Martin panics, wondering if he went too far calling them friends. But then Jon speaks again, voice filled with genuine confusion and a tinge of hope. “We’re friends?” 

All of Martin’s thoughts stop. “What?” he blurts. “Yes? I mean, I think so? We are, right?”

His head is still on Jon’s shoulder so he can’t see his face, but his voice is equally confused. “I mean, I think so? Yes, right? If you want to be, that is?”

“Of course I want to be, Jon! What?!”

“I don’t know!”

There’s a single bubble of silence that they both pop by bursting out into laughter, slowly sliding to the floor like a crumbling tower. Maybe it’s hysteria, but Martin has tears streaming down his face by the time he can get it under control minutes later. “Jon, if you don’t think we’re at  _ least  _ friends by this point, then we’ve seriously got to sort out your standards,” he coughs out, voice hoarse and chest hurting from laughing so hard.

Jon’s coming down from his laughing fit as well, whispery wheezes falling into deep breaths. “No, I… you’re right. We’re friends.” Martin feels his face flush, stupidly, but as Jon says it his face darkens and the light giddiness drains out of the room. “...Which is why I should tell you what she talked to me about.” 

And so he does. It’s almost surreal to listen to, knowing that whenever Jon says “Annabelle” that it was really Martin that had said the words. It sounds like a completely different person. And Jon does his best not to show it, but Martin can tell that he’s still pretty shaken up about it. Again he remembers Jon’s hatred and fear of the Web, and feels something ugly shift in his chest at what Annabelle has done. 

...But. “That sounds… like a pretty good deal,” he mutters when Jon’s finished talking. “Damn.”

Jon shifts back on the floor, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Well,  _ yes,  _ I think ‘pretty good deals’ are the Web’s modus operandi.” His eyes flick towards the ceiling and then back down to Martin. “I think the better question is if you want to take it.”

“Jon, I- I couldn’t. It was one thing when it was the Spiral but the Web  _ traumatized  _ you-” 

Jon waves a hand dismissively. “Martin, what hasn’t traumatized me by this point? I’ve been scared by every single Entity, the Web isn’t special.” 

“Jon!” 

“It’s true! Listen, I’m not- if it was me, I wouldn’t take the deal. But it isn’t. It’s  _ you.  _ It’s your struggle with the Lonely, and- and you fight it so hard.” His voice gets softer at the end. “Taking this is your choice.”

Martin’s mind is in a civil war. Half of him wants to say no, forget Annabelle and all her schemes and perfect opportunities. The other half is listing out, very clearly, how little he actually knows about what triggers the Lonely in him. One is definitely his own angst, another being alone, but beyond that? He’s had close calls, like with Elena, and as time goes on he’s finding there’s an itch in him to go out by himself more and more. He doesn’t know how long he can ignore it for. “...I don’t want you to be afraid of me,” he mutters, staring at his hands in his lap. 

“Martin…” Jon sighs, voice warm and soft. “After everything? I just don’t think I’d have it in me.” 

Martin breathes a laugh. “Positive?”

Jon pauses to consider, brow furrowed slightly. “...Yeah. Who knows, if it’s you I might actually come to like the Web.” 

“Ok, let’s not get carried away now,” Martin laughs, feeling his face warm. If it’s him, isn’t that nice? On impulse he leans forward, and one of his hands comes up to rest on Jon’s cheek. Jon doesn’t jump, but his face turns towards his in sudden and complete attention. “I don’t ever want to frighten you, okay?” Martin hears himself say. “If I ever do, you tell me immediately. I… I care so much about you.” 

He can feel the heat radiating off of Jon’s skin under his palm, but his eyes don’t waver. “I… I know. I do too.” He swallows, throat working. “I-it… it sounds like you’re taking her offer?”

Now it’s Martin’s turn to pause and consider. This doesn’t feel like something he can take back, but really when was the last time he was afforded that luxury? It’s been one immutable decision after the next. The Institute. Peter Lukas. Jon. And now, this. Framed like that, it doesn’t seem like much of a choice at all. “Yeah,” he replies, sounding more surprised than he feels. “I guess I am.”

And then a tiny spider descends from a strand of gossamer, silky smooth, and lands on Martin’s forehead.

And Martin understands. 

“Oh.  _ Oh.”  _

Jon lets out a hissing breath and scoots back across the floor. “Martin. Spider.”

“...Oh! Right.” He raises a hand to his forehead and the spider crawls on obediently, resting on the back of his palm. He stands up and walks to the window, opening it just enough to let the spider slip out, before shutting it again with a  _ snik. _

“...Martin?” Jon’s voice sounds worried, but it’s hard for Martin to focus on. There’s just so much new information.

“Yes, Jon?”

“Did you… the deal took immediately, didn’t it?”

“...Yeah. Yeah, I guess it did. Sorry, I’m a little distracted.”

“...By what?”

“The web.” 

Jon stands up suddenly, taut as a bowstring. “Pardon?” 

Oh, right. “No, not the  _ Web-  _ although actually, kind of that too? I don’t know how to describe it well.” He sees an idea in the information suddenly, and picks it out. “You could compel me? Those always give the best answers.”

Jon bites his lip. “...You said you didn’t like when I did that.”

Martin huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, without my  _ permission _ . It’s okay if I ask you to. Besides, this is just the easiest solution to getting what we want. …You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” 

Jon stands there for a moment, posture still tense and expression uncertain. “...Are you sure?” he asks finally, eyes meeting Martin’s. 

“Yeah, I think so.”

“...Ok.” The static curls off of him softly, filling the room in a hum of white noise.  **“What are you feeling?”**

The words finally align in Martin’s mind, and he breathes a sigh of relief. “Ok, so Annabelle sort of- she sort of lied. Or well, she didn’t really  _ lie,  _ she just… reinterpreted the truth? She didn’t explain it very well, from what you’ve told me. What she gave me… it  _ is _ a safety net, but it’s also a kind of map. A web of choices and information and outcomes that I can just- I can see them now. Like, all the uncertainty I had about which of my own actions would trigger the Lonely? I can look at the action now and see how that choice will affect the web. And then I can choose based on that. So I guess that’s what she meant by ‘the spiders will chase it off.’ The web gives me the information I need so I can make an informed decision. Is this what it’s like for you? …It’s a bit overwhelming, if so. I think I need some time to get used to it.” He feels the words finally run dry, and sighs again. “So… yeah. That’s it, I guess.” 

The look in Jon’s eyes is murderous. “That horrendous woman.” He turns and walks towards the front door. “I am going to find her and when I do-”

Martin crosses the room in long strides and grabs Jon’s arm. “Jon, no, wait. She helped. This helps.”

Jon whips around to face him. “She said you wouldn’t be an Avatar, Martin!  _ This _ -” He points at Martin’s head. “-sounds pretty close! I can’t believe she’d connect you to the Web after  _ everything- _ ” 

An opening. “No, that’s the thing. I don’t think it’s the Web that’s giving me this. I think… I think it’s Annabelle.”

A myriad of expressions pass over Jon’s face. “Elaborate.” 

“Ok, so… I have a feeling if I was getting this from the Web it would be much, I-I don't know, stronger than it is right now? Like I only have to look at it when I want to, and right now I’m just trying to parse through it all, which is why it feels so intense. And I think if it was the Web the information I’d be getting would be more about scaring people, and less about me? So I think Annabelle is giving me, like, a filtered piece of it? I’m like a third party. Does that make sense?” 

Jon’s eyebrows have become more and more furrowed as Martin explains. “I… yes, I think so.” His hand reaches up to brush Martin’s, and Martin releases his arm. He holds the place where Martin’s hand was. “So you’re not some kind of combined Web-Lonely Avatar now?”

Martin’s eyes unfocus as he takes a second to skim the web. “Nope.” 

Jon lets out a small laugh, looking away towards the couch. “I guess I’ll have to take your word for it, then.”

“...Yes, I guess so.” A cold thought crosses his mind. “Oh, Jon, are you afraid of me now?” 

“No,” Jon states with no hesitation, head snapping to face him so hard his hair whips into his face. He impatiently brushes it to the side. “I’m just… afraid  _ for _ you, I guess? This isn’t what I expected. I feel like we’ve had to make so many deals and compromises to get to where we are and I just-” He sighs again, shoulders slumping. “...Normal people don’t live like this.” 

Protectiveness rushes through Martin so suddenly it almost makes his throat close up. Slowly, so Jon can shrug away from it if he wants, he places a hand on his shoulder. “Well, if it makes you feel better, I don’t think I’ve been ‘normal’ for a really long time,” He replies, a crooked grin on his face.

The smile on Jon’s face is sad, but there nonetheless. “…I don’t know if it does, but I suppose you’re right,” he sighs, and closes the distance with a hug. 

For a moment Martin stands frozen. It’s so rare for Jon to initiate physical affection. But muscle memory saves him in the end and he wraps his arms around Jon, tight and sure. 

He can tell they’ve entered new territory. The struggles Martin’s dealt with for a week seem almost boring now, with the web providing simple routes around them. But now his problems just feel more abstracted. 

But standing here, with his arms around Jon, he can’t help but feel that things are going okay. 


End file.
